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SHREDS 




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THEN WE SEE A RIDERLESS HORSE DASH BY, A LADY S SADDLE 

Page fiO 




OTOTUUTOOT^ 



SHREDS 



BY 

Margaret L. Corlies 

ILLUSTRATED 






PHILADELPHIA 

PRESS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1905 




LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

DEC 12 1905 

Copyright Entry 
CLASS. CL XXC. No, 

copy m w 



0-7 6r 



Copyright, 1905 
By Margaret L. Corliks 



To 
MY DEAR MOTHER 

Whose love and appreciation 

will ever be 

my greatest inspiration 



csxsxsxgxsxgj 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

GlARDINO KEALE 11 

The Old Diligence 13 

Misjudged 22 

The Kiderless Roan 60 

Luscious Fruit 67 

A Mystery 71 

On the Dock 83 

Trapped 88 

High Life in my Garden 95 

A Reminiscence of Constantinople 98 

Aurora 115 

Snap 117 

Transition 132 

Signorina Camille Mina 133 

Phantom Ships 138 



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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

Then we See a Riderless Horse dash by, a Lady's 
Saddle. (A. B. Frost) Frontispiece 

'Neath the Old and Quaint Little Bridges we 
Silently glided away. (Louise Wood) 10 

My Portrait, the Portrait op my Fascinating 

Aunt. (M. Theodora Burt) 42 v 

Sentinel-like at the Garden Gate stands the 
Lily, Tall and Straight. (M. Theodora Burt) 95 

Whirling Dervishes who Perform a Terrible 
Novitiate supposed to be a Eevival of Hindoo 
Mysteries 102 

Superstition among a most Superstitious People 

will always Add to the Interest of St. Sophia 108 -> 

With the Beautiful Minarets pencilled so Grace- 
fully, we Wave you Farewell 114 , 

We loved Each other. That is saying All for 

Horse and Rider 122 

9 










' NEATH THE OLD AND QUAINT LITTLE BRIDGES WE SILENTLY 
GLIDED AWAY 



M^ ^IT Vis? 7M" W" ^J^ * 



GIARDINO REALE 



BY the Giardino Keale we drifted 
And dreamily gazed at the sun 
As our gondolier ceased from his paddling, 
And we thought of the day that was 
done — , 

A day of unalloyed pleasure; 

One I shall never forget, 
And the dip and the drip from the paddle 

Eemain in my memory yet. 
A few loitering people in costume 

Passed the bridge where our gondola 
stood ; 
A soft strain of sweet music then reached 
us, 
And stirred more our souls, if it could. 
Then slowly descended the shadows, 

A beggar or two passed us by, 
But the sun had gone out of the heavens, 

Leaving just a faint streak in the sky. 
11 



GIARDINO REALE 



Our gondolier waited our order, 

But our spirits refused to say — Go. 
No place can there be like charmed Venice ; 

No place on this earth, that I know. 
In history, in art, and in music, 

In the snatch of a song from afar, 
A tune to our memory always, 

Will be Venice wherever we are. 
i ' Piano,' ' we said to our boatman, 

For 'twas over, this beautiful day, — 
'Neath the old and quaint little bridges 

We silently glided away. 




12 






THE OLD DILIGENCE 

I sprang to my seat in the old diligence. 

"All aboard !" called the guard, dressed in green. 
In memory we'll cherish the sights we're to see, 

For you will go with us, I ween. 

DO you who have had the opportunity, 
and maybe discarded it, realize the 
intense enjoyment of a trip by diligence 
through ever-beautiful, refreshing Swit- 
zerland? 

Not with the luxury of a team of your 
own, but to go as thousands of Euro- 
peans go, — to stop where the diligence is 
obliged to stop, to collect the post from 
the little Swiss villages ; to see the eager, 
expectant small crowd, with upturned faces 
and blushing cheeks burnt brown by the 
sun, awaiting their turn to see if, mayhap, 
in that bag comes a message for them. 

Then, as we slowly start on again, our 
Tyrolean driver cracks his long lash, cocks 

13 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



his green hat, and our horses get into their 
traces ; we feel the air freshening and our 
cheeks glowing with the prospect of our 
next furlough ; we wave a good-by to those 
intent and smiling faces watching us, and 
wish we had the name of each one we are 
leaving behind, with their regular round 
of household cares and duties, who, though 
rarely failing to see the arrival of the dili- 
gence, have never set foot in one or gone 
beyond their small domain. We heartily 
wish that we could send them each a mes- 
sage on the return trip, to gladden their 
hearts when, alas, we shall be so far away. 

We think of their honest, kind faces, 
brown arms and legs, and bare feet; the 
chubby little fellow in the door-way, with 
patched trousers of many hues, afraid to 
come out, holding in his brown, dimpled 
hand a big slice of white bread, covered 
with honey, and his little cheeks shiny with 
the sweet delicacy. Then we drift off into 
pleasant reveries. 

Once more we are rounding at a break- 
neck pace another of those wonderful 

14 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



curves, and all is lost to sight behind ns; 
before ns stretch far and far away the 
bine, bine sky, snow-capped peaks, and 
bits of the winding road we are to travel, 
— green grass, tiny hamlets, stray sheep, 
and bleating lambs. Does any grass look 
as green as the grass in these passes? Is 
anything more restfnl than this refreshing 
calmness ? 

Not a clond is in the sky to-day, and were 
it not for the fine breeze that is blowing we 
shonld call it warm. We are descending 
the Grimsel, nnder the most ideal condi- 
tions and having everything onr own way. 

The curves are short and sharp, bnt the 
horses never slacken their speed, and all 
brakes are down. We have barely room 
enough to slide miraculously round each 
well-made turn; sometimes we think the 
leaders will surely go over into these deep 
abysses, and hold our breath as we watch 
the river Aare, surrounded by wooded 
mountains, foaming and dashing below us, 
and see the gigantic peaks of the Schreck- 
horn, Finsteraarhorn, Frescherhorner, and 

15 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



Galenstock, also Upper Valais, with its 
numerous ice streams, towering majesti- 
cally above us. 

Our Tyrolean driver is singing snatches 
of some songs fresh from the Tyrol, with 
the yodel refrain quite different from 
those we have become familiar with in 
Venice and throughout Italy. He is so big 
and strong that we are ashamed to think 
of fear, and decide to abandon everything 
to his care and lose ourselves in the en- 
joyment of each too quickly passing mo- 
ment, — forgetting the noise, the dust, and 
cares of our native city which we have left 
so far away. 

Yes, we have begun at last to live. Each 
care and anxious moment sinks into obliv- 
ion beside these glorious mountains and 
the breadth and depth of nature. 

We watch the wonderful Handegg Fall, 
with its dense cloud of soft spray made as 
it dashes unbroken one hundred and fifty 
feet into the abyss below, and rebounding 
fills the cavern with glorious mist on which 
the sun delights to make rainbows. We 

16 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



stand lost in admiration and spellbound 
with delight as we watch it; all our un- 
necessary worries slipping away. 

Has some one done us an injury? It is 
forgotten. 

Have we been unsuccessful? We shall 
try again. 

Where have we failed? There is no such 
thing as failure. 

Grasp each moment of inspiration and 
look up. The road lies straight before us, 
smooth and white; there are still short, 
sharp turns to make, but there is no fear 
in our hearts now. 

The exhilaration, the pure air, the fear- 
lessness of everything around and about 
fill us with fresh vigor, as on, on we go. 
Now and again some peasant perched far 
up on the mountain, minding his sheep or 
cows, meets our sight; then we hear the 
well-known Swiss bell, and begin to wonder 
where the hut is that offers shelter. Alas, 
another turn in the ever-winding road, and 
he is lost to view. 

A government station is in sight. In 

2 17 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



the lazy settlement some one seems to be 
hurrying, and as we draw nearer we see 
that our relays are in readiness; there 
seems to be no one about but the hostler, 
who relieves us of the post, and with the 
assistance of the driver makes the ex- 
change, and our five big brave browns are 
replaced by three roans, gaunt and thin, 
and a bay and a gray. We watch them as 
they are led away, feeling a pang of regret 
we cannot express, for they had become 
part of our present lives. The five new 
ones look tired out and worn, and our 
day is only just beginning. It was six 
o'clock when we left the Ehone Glacier, 
and now it is only ten. We somehow feel 
keen disappointment. Our fearless Tyro- 
lean driver has also disappeared. Where 
has he gone? We forgot we were not to 
keep him the whole way, and we all wanted 
to give him a "pourboire." Alas, we had 
no chance, though he had said that we 
should relay at the next halt, but we did 
not know that we should lose him. We 
shall miss the confidence he gave us, his 

18 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



cheerful company, and the fearless, dash- 
ing way he managed to round the curves. 
He, as well as the horses, had become a 
part of our journey. 

We are not in harmony with our new 
driver, who is a much smaller man, of glum 
and serious aspect, and does not seem like 
a gay, fearless Tyrolean, but looks surly 
and does not sing or whistle. We lose all 
the confidence that we have gained; every- 
thing is changed, — the horses do not pull 
together, there is general dissatisfaction 
pervading the next three hours of our 
journey. We are glad when we relay again 
and have five bays and another driver. We 
do not care who drives now, — the start 
was the best. 

As we make the exchange, we hear some 
one say in French : 

"Pierre buried his wife and child yes- 
terday. We did not expect to see him on 
duty to-day.' ' 

Poor Pierre ! So in these beautiful, pro- 
tecting mountains there is still sorrow in 
life, — aching hearts, wounds that will take 
long to heal. 

19 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



We wish that we had known before about 
Pierre. We feel that we have judged him 
unkindly, nay, harshly. We might have 
lightened his sorrowful burden. Now it is 
too late ; he too is lost to sight. 

We have been revelling in the mass of 
bloom of the Alpine flowers. The crocuses 
make the ground pink and white, and the 
forget-me-nots edge the roadside with 
dainty blue. We stop and leave our com- 
fortable banquette, and walk up the next 
hill, gathering bunches of the pretty blos- 
soms. How many things it recalls! We 
note with regret how it droops and withers 
as we try to cherish it, wishing we had not 
picked it, yet we cannot throw it from us. 
We pin some on our coats, put a spray in 
our card-cases, offer some to those who did 
not care to walk, then we jump on board 
again and are off and away. 

The next turn brings Meiringen into 

view. We realize with a sigh of regret that 

we have all too soon crossed the romantic 

Grrimsel, through these sunny peaks; and 

the simple life of the peasants, the l ' alpen 
20 



THE OLD DILIGENCE 



gluken" on, the Hospice, and blue sky, the 
flowers and green grass will ever remain 
with us as a bright refreshing memory. 
One tiny corner of enchanting Switzerland 
has forever enshrined itself within our 
hearts, carrying with it a sweet fragrance 
of peaeefulness, joy, and completeness, to 
uplift and refresh us when in the months 
to come, sitting by our big, open fire, listen- 
ing to the wind whistling, and hearing the 
snow against our window-panes, we know 
that it is drifting, drifting deep upon all 
these mountains, shutting from the peas- 
ants the sight of the diligence, and coating 
all with a pure white covering, which will 
sparkle like diamonds when the sun peeps 
from behind his hiding-place, casting his 
soft rays upon a world of unsurpassed 
loveliness. 



* 



21 



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^I^TJIP JN' vtf 'm ^f 'JM Vtt 'Jvf 'A<r Vff ^>ff VfP m JT<r ^HT ^Wr^t^ '«W 

MISJUDGED 

1WISH you could have seen the portrait 
as I saw it, for it hung for very many 
years upon the wall in our colonial draw- 
ing-room, and only last week it was taken 
down and sent far over the sea, leaving its 
mark vividly outlined upon my heart, from 
which it will never be erased, or its effect 
upon my after life regretted. The face was 
that of a young girl of eighteen or nine- 
teen, with fair hair, tightly braided in five 
strands, a leghorn hat turned up at one 
side, from under which peeped lovely pink 
roses; she also held some of the same 
favorite flowers in her hand. How I loved 
those roses ! They seemed with the face to 
be the sunshine of the room; now both 
were gone. There was a slight dimple in 
the right cheek, a strong, determined 
mouth, and immutably true brown eyes. 
There was something about the portrait so 

22 



MISJUDGED 



girlish and yet so statuesque that it had 
always invited my attention and com- 
manded my respect. My parents had never 
encouraged any conversation upon the sub- 
ject beyond the information, "Your aunt, 
my son, who has been dead many years. 
She married a foreigner. ,, 

If I asked any more questions, I was not 
given satisfactory answers, and no one 
seemed to know anything further. Now, 
as I grew older, tumultuous waves of love 
would sweep over me at times when I knew 
I was alone with that beautiful face, and I 
felt an inexhaustible affection that I would 
not have had any one suspect. 

Two more conservative, straitlaced per- 
sons, I believe, never existed than were 
my father and mother. Utter solemnity 
reigned supreme; there was no gayety in 
our household. We had our breakfast at 
eight o'clock, meeting before entering the 
dining-room, so that we might all go in to- 
gether; dinner in the middle of the day 
was likewise observed, and a scant supper 
at half after six concluded the day. My 

23 



MISJUDGED 



mother always had on hand a bountiful 
supply of sewing; father would provide 
himself with a book, and giving me an- 
other, would say, looking over his spec- 
tacles, — 

"You may read four chapters, my son, 
and then go to bed," after which he would 
settle himself in his large comfortable 
chair. 

This ended all conversation for the even- 
ing. Mother could not talk with me because 
it disturbed father's reading, and I would 
read as slowly as I could, so as to make the 
night shorter. So my weary, uneventful 
years passed by. 

Strange wonder that the lovely face of 
my aunt, with the bright pink roses, should 
have held such a wondrous charm for me 
Now it was gone ; and I, too, had outgrown 
the days when I had to be sent to bed, for 
to-day I am twenty-two, and with no less 
a will of my own than have my parents. 

I had been kept too closely by the fire- 
side, and the freedom of the past year at 
college had done its work of emancipation ; 

24 



MISJUDGED 



and though I loved and respected my 
parents for their upright, honorable lives, 
I had outgrown their conservatism, feeling 
that one must press on and be a part of the 
all-absorbing life beyond their comprehen- 
sion. To-night I wanted to know more of 
my aunt, and determined to question. 

My father was enjoying a milk-punch be- 
fore retiring, and my mother was still sew- 
ing. I had been spending the evening with 
some friends, and came home with the firm 
determination to ask such questions as I 
chose and as best suited my mood. 

"Will you have a milk-punch V asked 
my father. 

"Thank you, no," I replied. "I had 
some whiskey-and-soda before I came 
home. ' ' 

My mother lifted her spectacles from her 
eyes, placed them upon her forehead, and, 
turning towards me, said, — 

"I think it would have been better if you 
had considered that your father always 
takes his milk-punch before retiring, and 
take whatever he thinks best, with him. ' ' 

25 



MISJUDGED 



This settled the matter, for I had been 
showing some signs lately of kicking over 
the traces ; and as I had inherited a com- 
petency when I became of age, my mind 
was pretty well made up to try a trip across 
the seas, just where I hardly knew; but I 
wanted to know where my aunt had lived 
and whom she had married, so I boldly 
asked, 

"Whom did my aunt marry? And 
where did she live?" and continued, "How 
we shall miss the lovely portrait. J ' 

Father and mother looked at each other 
simultaneously. Presently mother spoke: 

"Does it make any difference to you 
whom she married? She died long ago. 
We never saw her after her marriage. ' ' 

"Yes, it makes a great difference to 
me," I replied. "If I should ever come 
across her husband, I should like to know 
him." 

"You will never see him," replied my 
father. "He is in foreign parts." 

Now was my chance to divulge my con- 
templated trip. 

26 



MISJUDGED 



u Iam soon going to foreign parts." I 
felt proud of my courage in thus offering 
this information. 

"You going to foreign parts !" gasped 
my mother. "You — to foreign parts!" 
And she burst into tears. 

I comforted her as best I could ; but the 
cat was out of the bag, and go to foreign 
parts I would. 

The next day I made another attack upon 
my father to divulge the name and resi- 
dence of my aunt, but to no purpose. 

"Do not speak about her further," he 
replied. "I shall not tell you her name, 
or where she chose to reside. I should not 
have known the latter if a letter from her 
husband, enclosing a request, gave him the 
right to demand the portrait, which he has 
recently done, as he has given up his wild 
life, I suppose, and settled down. He says 
he now has a home of his own, and wishes 
the portrait ; so it has gone to Italy. ' ' 

"To Italy?" I asked. "Where, father, 
for the love I bear my aunt, where in 
Italy?" 

27 



MISJUDGED 



My father saw he had blundered in men- 
tioning Italy, and looked at me with 
thoughts in his mind, — no doubt that a 
lunatic asylum would be the proper place 
for me, — and repeated my words : 

1 ' For the love you bear your aunt ! You 
never saw her. Has her spirit returned to 
bewitch you also?" 

I was silent. My father could never un- 
derstand the wild thoughts and burnings 
in my heart now. Yes, to Italy I would go. 
Those whom she had loved and those who 
had loved her I would love ; and I should 
find them, I knew. The exhilaration of 
the search was upon me. "Bewitched you 
also" ran in my head. So she was kind 
and gay, and people loved her. This was 
the first inkling I had ever had that her 
life had been different from ours, though I 
knew it must have been. "Also," how the 
word made me thrill. I must find her hus- 
band — my uncle — and together we would 
speak of that sweet, girlish face, gone from 
our prim household. It seemed to be beck- 
oning me to follow, and I was more than 
willing to accede to the unspoken request. 

28 



MISJUDGED 



With what feelings of unrest I started on 
my journey it would be hard to determine, 
or what sensations were filling the hearts 
of my parents who were not in sympathy 
with my undertaking. The pulsations of 
the ship seemed to still the beatings of my 
heart, but the portrait and the bare wall 
haunted me, even at night. I fancied I was 
trying to hold tight to it, while demons 
were dragging it from me, and I would 
awaken unref reshed. 

I had promised to visit some college 
friends in England, and went directly 
there ; but the Continent seemed beckoning 
to me, all the time pointing to Italy. My 
visit to England was a failure, and I has- 
tened to cross the channel, being soon in 
the land of sunshine, flowers, and olives. I 
recall every object my eyes lighted on after 
crossing the border into Italy. To Milan I 
wended my way. Here I found the opera 
at La Teatro della Scala under full sway. 
The royal loges were always well occupied, 
as were also all the best stalls. The Italian 
type interested me, and I went every even- 

29 



MISJUDGED 



ing to the opera. The orchestra was par 
excellence. When I first entered this par- 
ticular evening it was playing Strauss' 
valse, "Wedding Sounds.' ' I shall never 
forget it; then followed the prelude from 
"Cavalleria B^t^ana." I had been a 
devotee of music, availing myself of every 
opportunity during the past four years of 
hearing good music. I also had taken many 
lessons, and knew something of the violin; 
so each day Italy grew more and more 
charming to me. I made many pleasant 
acquaintances, and was less restless, con- 
gratulating myself that it happened to be 
the Carnival season in Milan. 

One day I was walking leisurely outside 
the Gallerie Vittorio-Emanuele on the Pi- 
azza del Duomo when there dashed by me 
a well-appointed victoria, in which wa& 
seated a young girl. I did not see her 
face, but I saw her fair braided hair, 
done in the five strands like that ever- 
living portrait. 

"Who was that in the carriage V I 
asked an officer. 

30 



MISJUDGED 



" Which carriage ?" 

"The one that has just gone by," I an- 
swered. 

He stared at me, replying, "The whole 
street is filled with carriages. I do not 
know the one you mean. ' ' 

Blockhead, I thought; but I did not say 
so, and turned to the left of the Cathedral, 
quickening my footsteps in the direction 
out the Corso, where the victoria had dis- 
appeared. I walked for miles, until I was 
tired out, and finding I had reached the 
Arena, retraced my steps and returned, 
weary and unsatisfied, to the hotel. 

The same old restlessness was again 
upon me, and dressing hastily, I entered 
La Scala long before the throng appeared. 
I scanned every person, in hopes of seeing 
once again that familiar braid. Alas, that 
day may yet be far distant! The opera 
was becoming more and more of a neces- 
sity to me now, and each night found me 
in my accustomed place in the stalls, unless 
some kind friend had previously invited 
me to a place in his loge. The latter bored 

31 



MISJUDGED 



me, however, as I could not enjoy the music 
so much as when alone. 

To-night, as I entered, the orchestra was 
playing the well-known Spanish Dance, by 
Arbos. It seemed to stir me into action; 
my pulses thrilled with each note, and be- 
fore it had ended I saw two very distin- 
guished-looking persons enter a loge not 
far from me and quietly take their seats. 
They were quite alone during all of the 
first act, also during part of the intermis- 
sion, but were wholly wrapped up in each 
other's conversation, seeming to be uncon- 
scious of aught else. 

Just as the curtain was about to rise on 
the second act, a fair-haired young girl 
entered, seemingly in great excitement. 
For a moment my heart stood still. Yes, 
she was the exact reproduction of the por- 
trait that I had crossed the seas to find. 
Who could she be? I guessed twenty 
years to be her age, but could get no fur- 
ther. The lights went down and the house 
was in darkness. When the act was over 
she was not in the loge, and there sat, as 

32 



MISJUDGED 



at first, the same distinguished-looking 
couple quite alone. 

I hastened to find some friend, that I 
might, if possible, ascertain the name of 
those who were now absorbing all my atten- 
tion. At last I found some one who, though 
he could not give me the desired informa- 
tion, found some one who could. The name 
now in my possession was that of Count 
and Countess Branzoni and their daughter ; 
also a piece of information of great in- 
terest concerning one of the actresses who 
was making her debut that evening, and 
was a loved school friend of most of the 
influential families in Milan. 

She was a girl of rare beauty, with a 
full, deep voice, which was stirring the 
hearts of the audience. Report said that 
Countess Branzoni 's daughter had bought 
and designed her costumes for the opera in 
which she was appearing, and that she and 
the debutante's mother were attending her 
friend in the green room. 

This much I had learned. So they must 
be people of artistic temperament, I rea- 

3 33 



MISJUDGED 



soned, — not being averse to the stage. 
Suddenly the idea flashed across my mind, 
' ' Had my aunt been an actress 1 f ' 

This, then, would have been accounted, in 
a measure, for the aversion of my parents 
to the original of that lovely portrait. 

The opera was over ; the crowd pressed 
on, and I with it, just in time to see Count 
and Countess Branzoni with their fair- 
haired daughter enter their carriage; and 
as the latter did so, I saw the soft, five- 
braided plait that had flashed upon my 
vision that day from the carriage, and the 
f ac simile of that on the well-known canvas 
that once brightened our gloomy drawing- 
room. She must be my aunt's daughter, — 
my cousin, and the stately lady with the 
rare sweet smile my uncle's second wife, 
my cousin's step-mother. Could he really 
be my uncle, that dark, distinguished-look- 
ing foreigner, so gracious, so dignified, so 
unlike everything at home? And that lady 
by his side, with her gray hair — prema- 
turely so, it looked — could she be filling the 
place once occupied by my loved aunt in 

34 



MISJUDGED 



the home and heart of the count? I felt a 
momentary aversion to her. I say momen- 
tary, for it could not have lasted longer. 
She, too, was lovely, and I reasoned: A 
man of excellent taste, this count. Who 
wanted the picture that had been taken 
hastily from our wall? He, or his daugh- 
ter, or his second wife ? How I longed for 
a sight of that familiar face. My curiosity 
was deepening every moment. I could not 
return to the hotel, but stopped at several 
cafes, lastly ordering pezzi duri and some 
panetone, and brooded over the dreary 
past and the so uncertain future. How 
would it all turn out? Did I not stand 
a fair chance of being laid in the beautiful 
Campo Santo without accomplishing the 
object nearest my heart? 

Another week passed while I gained all 
the knowledge I could. No one seemed to 
know of the count's first marriage, and 
many misgivings began to fill my heart. 
Every one who knew anything about him 
said he had married a woman he dearly 
loved, that he was a poor artist with im- 

35 



MISJUDGED 



mense talent, and they did not know any- 
thing about his private life until he had 
become suddenly rich, and, buying a fine 
residence near Milan, had settled down to 
enjoy his present home. No, there had 
never been any scandal that they knew of. 
There all information ceased. Of course I 
had not met any of the count's personal 
friends. All this was idle gossip gleaned 
from many sources. I had no way of posi- 
tively knowing that he was any connection 
of mine, — only the five-strand golden braid 
and the f ac simile of the loved portrait had 
been before me ; of this there could be no 
mistake. If this fair girl was not my 
cousin, who was she? Something else was 
puzzling me. Did the count — if my uncle 
— know he had a nephew? I had reached 
the Corso di Porta Vicinese by this time 
and before me stood the Colonnade with its 
sixteen Corinthian columns. I would now 
proceed to S. Lorenzo and rest in this fa- 
vorite octagonal church where the architec- 
ture is so dignified and unostentatious be- 
fore returning to my apartment. 

36 



MISJUDGED 



One thought followed rapidly by another 
passed through my mind. Why had I come 
at all? What place should I occupy, if I 
should make myself known? The face I so 
loved had long ago mouldered to dust. I 
should be nothing to a man who had mar- 
ried my mother's sister, whom she had in 
return cast far from her. If this man were 
my uncle, then he would surely not look 
with pleasure upon the son of a woman — 
not to say a sister — who had for some un- 
known reason to me seen fit to cast aside 
her sister ; the woman this foreigner must 
have loved to distraction. I should have 
no response to my affection from those to 
whom a seeming injury had been done, in 
which I, however, had no part, but which 
still must have left its sting in at least one 
heart, my uncle's. I pondered over all these 
thoughts and leaving S. Lorenzo, formed 
a new resolve. 

Yes, all my former plans vanished. I 
decided to pursue an entirely different 
course. I should not allow myself to be 
known to them until I should have ascer- 

37 



MISJUDGED 



tained, for myself, all about them. Some 
one must introduce me under an assumed 
name. I must dine with them, visit them, 
— in short, know them; and what then? 
Time must solve any future action. If 
Count Branzoni were an artist, then he 
must be known among the art world. I 
should go to the exhibition of paintings and 
curios now open at the Giardino Pubblico 
and see some of his pictures, — possibly buy 
one, or talk with some artist known to him; 
possibly buy several pictures, putting my- 
self in evidence by becoming known to the 
art world, — which must be my world ever 
afterwards, which was my world now. 

Yes, I should buy, if for sale, one of my 
uncle 's pictures ; at any rate it would do 
no harm to try this mode of procedure. I 
had by this time returned to the hotel and 
had been sitting by my window watching 
the passers-by, while these last thoughts 
had been coursing through my mind, and 
now I rose, and dressing more carefully 
than usual, I wended my way to the Art 
Exhibition. Upon arriving at the Giardino 

38 



MISJUDGED 



Pubblico, it appeared not to be the hour 
for visitors, as the large salons were almost 
empty. I procured a catalogue, and run- 
ning over the artists ' names, found several 
pictures entered under the name of Z. A. 
Branzoni. The one I first found was a 
village scene, a peasant's wedding, and 
consisted of many figures. I stood before 
the picture, for some time studying it 
thoroughly, when looking more closely I 
discerned one of the figures had the famil- 
iar leghorn hat with pink roses; the face 
was a full one, and though the hair was 
fair, I could discern no plaits ; but the tilt 
of the hat was the same and the roses the 
exact shade of those I had grown to love. 

Yes, the count was my uncle ; these two 
pictures had been done by the same artist. 
I examined every stroke of the brush, every 
line, everything I could think of; but pos- 
sibly the count had not painted that por- 
trait which hung for so long in our draw- 
ing-room ; perhaps some other artist. I had 
only imagined he had painted it, when I 
heard, after arriving in Italy, that he was 

39 



MISJUDGED 



an artist. It may be the fair-haired aunt I 
so loved had been a model for both these 
pictures. There was no name on the one 
I remembered at home, as I had often 
looked for it, but there was the name, Z. A. 
Branzoni, on this picture. The character 
of the work would denote that they had 
been done by one and the same person. I 
do not know how long I should have re- 
mained examining the picture if a sudden 
curiosity had not made me impatient to see 
the others catalogued under the name of 
Branzoni. These were difficult to find, for 
whoever knew an art gallery to have the 
pictures systematically arranged and num- 
bered! However, I found them, after dili- 
gent search, and all contained a picture of 
the figure with the braided hair and pink 
roses. Sometimes she appeared in the 
foreground, sometimes in diminutive form 
in the background, but she was never ab- 
sent from his pictures. 

I had one yet to find which was cata- 
logued under " Portraits.' ' My attention 
had not been attracted to this when first I 

40 



MISJUDGED 



discovered the name of Branzoni. I was 
obliged to ask where the Portraits were, 
and being shown, entered the salon which 
held them. 

The room was quite empty, save for two 
figures, one a middle-aged, severely- 
dressed person, the other a young girl, with 
fair hair braided in five strands. This was 
our third encounter. She was none other 
than Signorina Branzoni, in other words, 
the little countess. She was standing look- 
ing intently at a small miniature which she 
held in her hand, then at the portrait be- 
fore which she was standing, undoubtedly, 
I could see, comparing the two. My eyes 
were riveted upon her. Fortunately, she 
was too much absorbed to notice me. I 
studied her intently several minutes, until 
I was brought to myself by the action of 
the elderly person, who, no doubt thinking 
my manner impertinent, rose and stood by 
the little countess, — her companion at once 
I inferred, and, turning, I reluctantly 
walked away, looking at some portraits 
near by which were the work of the Milan- 

41 



MISJUDGED 



ese. The light was such that I could 
not distinguish the portrait which seemed 
to be absorbing her attention, but I soon 
placed myself in such position that I 
could. 

I must have made some exclamation, 
though unknowingly, for simultaneously 
with my coming face to face with the pic- 
ture they both wheeled directly round and 
looked searchingly at me. 

She had been comparing the miniature 
she held in her hand with my portrait, — 
the portrait of my fascinating aunt, — for 
such and no other it was that met my sight 
upon the wall. 

No, all the companions in the world could 
not turn me away from it. I felt a fierce 
jealousy filling my heart that I had never 
experienced before. This is the picture I 
shall buy, I thought. Yes, it shall belong to 
me. 

I approached the companion, and raising 
my hat, said, — 

"Pardon me, is this picture for sale, do 
you know?" 

42 




MY PORTRAIT, THE PORTRAIT OF MY 



FASCINATING 



MISJUDGED 



"Non capisco English" (I do not under- 
stand English), she replied. 

Here was my chance. Surely, the little 
countess did, I thought; but before I had 
time to realize my good luck, she replied in 
perfect English, — 

" No, Signor; the picture is not for 
sale. ' ' 

My nearer approach had revealed the 
name of the portrait, for on a gilt plate 
were these words, "My wife — Z. A. Bran- 
zoni. ' ' 

"I regret it is not for sale," I replied. 
"I wanted to own it. I would pay any 
price to be able to take it with me. I love 
it." 

The little countess closed the case of 
the miniature she was holding. This 
time it was she who stared at me. Her 
glance held a question it was difficult to 
analyze. 

"You love it," she cried. "So do I, 
though I have never seen it before. It has 
just arrived." 

"Can you tell me something of the 

43 



MISJUDGED 



artist?" I continued. "Would he take an 
order for another?" 

"Oh, no," she said. "He does not sell 
his pictures any more. ' ' 

But her eyes were studying me with 
the same criticism that had been bestowed 
upon the portrait and the miniature. I 
felt dazed, embarrassed, — in fact, I cannot 
define my feelings. Something about me 
she had recognized. What is it? I burned 
with impatience to question further. 

"Are you an artist, too?" she asked. 

' ' I wish to heaven I were, ' ' I stammered. 

I could see that our few civil words were 
annoying her companion, who no doubt 
thought it wise to take her charge home. 
Her few words in Italian conveyed such 
a request, I noticed. I do not know which 
of the two feelings predominated, — sorrow 
that she was about to leave the salon or 
joy that I should again be alone with the 
portrait of my loved aunt. But such a 
strange thing happened at this moment 
that I was left dazed for many hours. 

As they were leaving the room the 

44 



MISJUDGED 



countess dropped her handkerchief. Has- 
tily picking it up, I carried it to her. A 
little cry escaped her lips as I returned it, 
and she looked me squarely in the face, 
with that same curious expression of in- 
quiry in her brown eyes, and with a slightly 
impulsive step towards me, she cried, — 

"I want you to meet my father. You 
must, oh, you must! To-morrow he will 
be here at eleven. Will you take this and 
give it to him to-morrow? Do not open it 
until I am gone. I cannot resist giving it 
to you now. But you will return it to- 
morrow. You promise V 

"With all my heart, I promise,'' I re- 
plied. 

And handing me the black leather case 
which contained the miniature, she was 
gone. I listened to the swiftly retreating 
carriage until the sound was lost, then I 
opened the case. 

No, it was not a miniature of my loved 
aunt, as I had supposed, which I held in 
my hand. The likeness which flashed upon 
me was none other than my own. So strong 

45 



MISJUDGED 



was the resemblance that a child could 
have seen it. 

What does it all mean? 

The little countess was gone. I was 
alone with my loved picture and the minia- 
ture. 

The quick succession of events during 
these short fifteen minutes had left me 
speechless and curious. To-morrow at 
eleven I was to meet my uncle face to face ; 
to talk with him of his first wife ; to ask 
him many questions which he could answer. 
Would he? 

All night my pulses beat high with ex- 
pectations of most confusing import. 
Sometimes buoyant, sometimes the oppo- 
site. When eight o'clock came, I rose and 
dressed. Better to go out in the fresh air 
and wait until time for that curious rendez- 
vous. The hotel suffocated me. 

At eleven sharp I was again in the por- 
trait salon, and there before me was the 
distinguished foreigner whom I had seen 
in the loge at La Scala. He was alone this 
time and studying intently the portrait, — 

46 



MISJUDGED 



my loved portrait. Knowing I must be 
the one to make the advance, I drew the 
miniature from my pocket and approached 
him. 

He trembled visibly with pleasure when 
he saw me, and looking at me gravely and 
kindly, said, — 

"My daughter had no need to fear that 
I should miss you. There is no mistaking 
the likeness. It is remarkable. May I ask 
if you do not find what I say true in the 
miniature 1 9 ' 

"It is so like me," I replied, "that I 
might have sat for it, though the person 
here is much older." 

"You are right,' ' he said. "He was 
over forty when the miniature was painted. 
It was almost the first work that I ever 
did." He sighed. "I have done better 
since; but my work is over now. I am a 
man numbering sixty-four years. I cannot 
spare time at my age for my brush when I 
still have the devotion of my wife. My 
wife," he repeated, pointing to the por- 
trait. 

47 



MISJUDGED 



I turned and looked again upon the face 
of my aunt, then at him. 

What did it all mean? Surely, my aunt 
had been dead many years. Could his 
memory cherish only her sweet face, and 
what was his present wife to him? 

I could not speak, and he continued, — 

"The likeness to her brother, whom she 
will always most deeply mourn, is so strong 
in the portrait that my daughter, who 
loved him dearly, brought this miniature 
yesterday to compare with the portrait of 
her mother, but could not detect the like- 
ness we both see. This miniature is of my 
wife's brother, dead now six years, and it 
is a fac simile of you. May I ask if you 
are a fellow-artist, and why this portrait 
appeals to you so strongly. You are an 
American and a gentleman, and I trust this 
chance meeting may give us each a friend. 
My wife waits anxiously to see the person 
who so strongly resembles her lamented 
brother. ' ' And he handed me his card. 

I took from my pocket my wallet, then 
hesitated. Should I give him my card, 

48 



MISJUDGED 



or write on a blank one an assumed name f 
All my carefully made plans were being 
blown, whither I could know not. 

Better be honest, I thought, and cursed 
the day they had given me my father's full 
name. 

I handed him my card. 

He scanned it for a moment, and I could 
see a greater, more noble struggle for mas- 
tery in one human being than seemed pos- 
sible, then he calmly turned towards me, 
and said, — 

" Peter Lanier Kavens, I have guessed 
who you are. Did you ever hear of me be- 
fore ? Your face says, No. ' ' A long silence 
followed, then he said, "Come with me to 
the club and lunch. We have much to say 
to each other. Come, let us go." 

I followed him out. His thoughts, I 
knew, were of the past, mine were of the 
present. 

We soon found ourselves at the club, 
seated in a remote corner of the dining- 
room, and, offering me a cigar and a light, 
he himself took one, and, leaning back in 

4 49 



MISJUDGED 



his chair, lighted it. "We smoked for a 
moment in silence, then he said, — 

"It is rather too early to order luncheon. 
Suppose we wait for an hour. " And order- 
ing cocktails for us, he thus began his 
story. 

"Peter Lanier Eavens, I am glad it is 
you. The resemblance to your most 
gracious uncle is strongly marked. Was 
my name ever mentioned by your father 
or mother in your presence V 

"Never," I replied. "Until yesterday 
I was entirely at a loss to know positively 
whom my aunt had married. ' ' 

"Well, it is a short story, and a sad one, 
because it cast reflections upon her. For 
myself I did not care. But she was falsely 
judged, and they would listen to no ex- 
planations. I trust I shall not wound 
you?" 

I waved my hand for him to proceed. 

"Your aunt — my loved wife — was 
brought up by one Peter Lanier Eavens 
and his wife, and lived with them. I first 
became acquainted with her while I was 



50 



MISJUDGED 



struggling to support myself by my brush. 
Of course there could be only evil to them 
in an artist whom they considered was 
leading a roving, dissolute life. I was gay 
and carelessly happy in those days, being 
full of spirit and recklessness. I loved 
deeply your aunt. We made several en- 
gagements to go to the theatre, opera, and 
similar entertainments which were always 
discountenanced by her family. Then an 
inspiration came to me. I must paint her 
portrait. It would give me fame, notoriety ; 
in short, I should become celebrated when 
the world should see that lovely face. 

"Then came those happy moments in 
my studio. She sat for me there. The 
family grew more scandalized. Then it 
was exhibited. This brought more censure, 
but joy, to me. Many orders followed. I 
was indeed famous. 

' ' Your aunt wanted the portrait. I gladly 
withdrew it from exhibition and presented 
it to her, sending it to her home, your 
father's. I myself followed, and we hung 
it in that well-remembered colonial draw- 

51 



MISJUDGED 



ing-room. Was it still there when I sent 
for it?" 

* * Still there," I replied; "and because 
you sent for it I am here. I loved it so 
deeply I followed it. ' ' ' 

Tears started to his eyes. " It is so with 
every one, ' ' he replied. ' * Every one loves 
her." 

I noticed he again spoke of her as if 
still living. 

"Everybody loves her," he repeated, his 
face beaming. 

"What a blissful hour we spent in that 
old colonial drawing-room, seeing where 
the light would best suit, and all. I shall 
never forget it. Some hard words were 
said to both of us that day. Finally I was 
forbidden the house. Then followed two 
years of hard work. I gained still greater 
fame, and money came with it. We were 
obliged to meet clandestinely, for meet 
we would; they could not separate us. 
One night it was late when we parted. 
I thought it best to see her home, and at 
the door her brother-in-law met us. I shall 

52 



MISJUDGED 



not forget his bitter words and bearing to 
us both. 

" 'You need not enter,' he said. 'In the 
future this house will no more shelter you. 
Go where you please.' And he closed the 
door on her and me. 

"Your aunt was overcome with grief. 
Our lives had been free from taint, only 
happy, joyous, glad, free, buoyant, and 
she could not understand why she had been 
condemned. I took her to the house of one 
of her school friends. There she passed 
the night. But no explanations would be 
listened to by her family, and later on an 
explanation from them followed of the rea- 
son why. Innocent of any wrong, she had 
been basely misjudged, — convicted without 
a hearing. The supposition almost crazed 
her. I urged her to marry me. We would 
go away. I had many friends in Italy, — 
my native home. 

"She stayed with her school-mate for 
one week, and then consented. Quietly in 
that little church you have gone to every 
Sunday we were made husband and wife. 

53 



MISJUDGED 



I can hear the bells ringing now, — so faint 
and sad they sounded to me; but I prayed 
to God that never one unhappy moment 
should come to her life again, that I might 
spare her every pain. He has helped me. ' ' 

"When did my aunt die! " I asked. 

"She is not dead, thank God!" and as 
he said this his face was benign. 

"May I ask who the distinguished 
woman is I saw with you at La Scala V ' I 
ventured to ask. 

"My wife," he replied. "Whom did 
you think she was?" 

I was bewildered. My aunt ! Surely the 
portrait must have crazed me. 

"Oh," he said, "I forgot. There is 
something I have omitted telling you. 
When I saw your aunt the morning after 
that sad encounter with her brother-in-law, 
her hair was white, as you see it now, — or 
rather as you will see it ; for she longs to 
know you, — the man who so strongly re- 
sembles her dead brother." 

I looked long and earnestly at him. 
Could it be true? Was the lovely, dis- 

54 



MISJUDGED 



tinguished-looking woman with white hair 
the one who had sat for "my portrait." 
My loved aunt still alive, — still to be 
known to me after all these years ! 

"I have always been under the impres- 
sion that my aunt died long ago, ' ' I said. 

"Why did you think that?" he asked. 

I felt the color rising to my face in hot, 
angry waves, which he no doubt noticed. 
Leaning towards me, he asked, — 

' ' Were you given to understand that she 
was not living!" 

"Yes," I replied. "I was told she died 
years ago." 

"To them she died, — not to me and to 
all those who love her. Come with me and 



We took a carriage, and were soon enter- 
ing a capacious, beautiful white marble 
hall, filled with ferns, flowers, and com- 
fortable chairs, — so cool and refreshing, 
and a fountain playing. 

"If you will step in here for a few mo- 
ments," said my host, "I will prepare my 
wife for the interview. ' ' 

55 



MISJUDGED 



I entered a simply furnished, beautiful 
salon. I could hear, as I sat waiting, a 
violin solo with piano accompaniment, and 
I fancied my cousin was taking a violin 
lesson. Presently a sweet voice filled the 
air, — 

"Addio la belle a Napoli, addio." 

I had lost myself in the music when the 
door opened and my aunt entered, her 
beautiful gray hair seeming to cast a halo 
round her sweet, sensitive face. 

I felt abashed in her presence. My heart 
beat so fast I could hardly speak. 

She came gracefully towards me with 
outstretched hand, and I hastened to greet 
her. 

"My dear nephew !" she said. "May I 
call you that? Welcome to our home." 
And she embraced me tenderly. 

I could find no words to reply, and she 
continued,— 

"Are your mother and father still 
living V 9 

"Still living and well," I replied. "At 
least they were when I left home two 

56 



MISJUDGED 



months ago. I have travelled far to see 
you, aunt- 



? » 



' ' Emilie, ' ' she said, filling out the sen- 
tence for me. "They never even men- 
tioned my name to yon? No, do not pain 
yourself to reply. I can see. Yon are like 
my dear, noble brother Richard. He lived 
with ns here, and was with ns when he died. 
It was he who gave me in marriage to my 
dear husband, and he followed us. He was 
never content if long absent from us, we 
were such a happy trio. ' ' Her lovely face 
grew radiant. "Then little Emilie came, 
and they worshipped each other. She was 
fourteen when he died ; and you, my dear 
Peter, are so like him — so very like him. 
We shall love you, too. I do already. ' ' 

How many times I had thought of this 
meeting, had pictured it ; and how different 
it was, with the soft light and artistic sur- 
roundings; the sweet voice and violin 
stealing in through the open door; the 
birds singing, and all speaking of love and 
plenty. I had never looked forward to 
such a reception, and I realized then that 

57 



MISJUDGED 



an artistic life was the only one worth 
living. 

"If loving my Uncle Richard thus 
deeply has filled so much of your life, I only 
pray that my fortunate resemblance to him 
may find a corner somewhere in your 
heart, ' ' I said. 

"It has already found one," she re- 
plied. 

We sat in silence for many moments 
while the sounds of that sweet voice and 
violin accompaniment reached us through 
the open door, and the delightful fragrance 
of the many flowers blooming all about us, 
combined with the blossoms of the trailing 
vines outside the casement, lent an added 
charm. Here peace and happiness reigned 
supreme. 

I looked long and affectionately at my 
aunt, feeling convinced that she had noth- 
ing in her life to regret which could have 
cast a shadow, if it had been given fair and 
just consideration. For the first time, I 
fancied I detected a slight, indefinable sad- 
ness on that fair face. Presently turning 

58 



MISJUDGED 



towards me with one of her rare sweet 
smiles and rising, she said, — 

"Let us step out npon the terrace; it 
will be cooler, and we can breathe the fresh 
air. Your uncle will soon be down, and 
Emilie will shortly have finished her lesson, 
and will join us there. I know you will be 
dear friends, — it is she who has given you 
to us. She has never known how I was 
misjudged." 




59 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



UTTER silence had fallen between us, 
that death-like silence that brooks no 
approach, — for had we not each the deter- 
mination to blot from our recollection the 
past, to close forever the book which held 
for us the sweet remembrance of many 
days of gladness and of joys that can come 
but once to those who have the capability 
of deep affection? 

Fate, alas ! had not done all she might 
for us, even though we were considered 
golden-spoon chaps and the best fellows of 
our crowd, — for had we not always a merry 
jest, a good story, a pocketful of money, 
unlimited time, no incumbrances? "What 
an enviable lot!" they all said. And why 
not let them think it? Our dark fate had 
led us to stake our all on the same woman, 
never dreaming that she gave her smiles 

60 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



alike to each; and so deuced well had she 
played the game that each had thought the 
other but a passing acquaintance, — we who 
had been all our lives dearer to each other 
than two brothers and who would each 
have relinquished to the other the prize 
we both held so dear. 

If she had cared — Baugh! Why look 
back? Why lament? But a bitterness filled 
our hearts too deep to be put into idle 
words. 

Shall we ever be able to break this 
silence? Will not a cloud always darken 
the bright horizon that once spread away 
in the distance with equal radiance for 
both? What need of words? Alas! what 
could words avail when one is sick to death 
with the bitterest thoughts known to man. 
What compensation shall we have in the 
years before us ? 

The fire burned brightly. There were 
plenty of cigars on the shelf, wine in the 
cabinet, untasted dinner in the kitchen, 
flowers on the table, unlighted candles 
ready for use; yet we had sent our good 

61 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



man to enjoy his dinner and all the dain- 
ties that had been provided for us, with a 
hasty "We do not dine to-night, Ned," — 
we two who were to have made merry over 
the joy of telling his sweet secret and in 
whom either of ns would have found a 
willing listener. 

Yes, it was ended; and in no mood for 
eating, drinking, or consolation we sat 
gazing into the fire which danced and 
sparkled, snapped and crackled and chased 
one spark after another up the chimney 
like gay, bright butterflies, seemingly in 
merry jest, careless and dumb to our dis- 
appointment. Yes, thank God! the secret 
was not theirs; it was safely locked for- 
ever in our hearts, and all the bright ashes 
floating up the chimney could not tell it to 
the world. 

Would she make sport of it to her 
friends? Could she? Enough! Enough! 
The morning must find us cool, calm, 
merry, and light-hearted. We must dine 
at the club, make jokes for the boys, give 
a hearty welcome to some club guest, and 

62 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



be trotted out to show our paces and listen 
to dull tales until, in sheer desperation, 
we should decide to go one better and tell 
them something worth while. Oh, the hol- 
lowness of it all! The sham; the behind 
the scenes; the idle show. And then the 
drop-curtain. Alas, it would not end the 
play! 

Knowing each other so well, we could 
tell what was passing in the mind of each. 
Why, then, speak! Why break the silence 
that had settled down upon us, like a dark 
curtain obscuring the light. Why not let 
it eat our hearts out? Why not? We both 
knew that one word from her would call us 
again to her side. It was her voice ringing 
in our hearts and ears with such music as 
neither of us should ever again hear. So 
what cared we now for what either could 
say? 

Alas! a woman's touch, a well-remem- 
bered act, a simple turn of the head, a glad 
caress, a gracious smile, a seemingly frank 
avowal of her faith and trust and loyalty, 
these were a few of the many kindnesses 

63 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



that had made our days harbingers of 
brightness and brought us nights of calm, 
sweet sleep. Was her word devoid of 
truth? Was she what the world would 
have thought her did it but know, — and 
to us? 

Come what might, — and morning was 
surely coming, — everything must be rele- 
gated to the dear, silent past. Our hearts 
must grow hard and lean and shrivel up. 
And for what? Because a woman had 
played us false ? Bosh ! How many women 
had we played false? How many? Where 
were they? Dazzling the world with their 
wit, their beauty, their indomitable cour- 
age, and steeling their hearts to forget — 
maybe. 

Are we not being paid back in our own 
coin, good fellows ? And how do we like it? 
Did we not think that there was pain in 
our glances, in our whispered nothings on 
the stairs, in the lingering clasp of our 
hands, in our many well-known methods to 
make their color come and go for which 
we watched for our amusement? Often 

64 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



they cared. Yes, and we tired of the easy 
game. And now we have lost the larger 
one. 

Bear np! Be men! Take yonr medi- 
cine ! Yes, open yonr lips, for the dawn is 
breaking; there are sonnds of the milk- 
men and bakers on their ronnds, and the 
fire is dead and dark and cold. It is time 
for that early morning ride. Bob will soon 
be at the door. Doff yonr evening clothes ; 
pnt on your riding toggery. A run across 
country will give yon strength and health 
and life. The air is keen and fresh and 
cold, — and yon may meet her. Her? She 
always rides early. What mockery is this ? 
Yes, snrely Bob is at the door; we can 
hear his impatient stamping, and are won- 
dering who will go. Bnt there are many 
confused sounds, and here, on the outskirts 
of the city, there is an unusual flutter and 
stir and anxious voices. 

We rise and go to the casement. Our 
groom beckons us — extraordinary be- 
havior! — and points to the door, and 
beckons again. Then we see a riderless 

5 65 



THE RIDERLESS ROAN 



horse dash by, a lady's saddle, a broken, 
dangling stirrup 

We are downstairs, out among the 
wagons. Who are they carrying along the 
wet and dewy roadside? Oh, shall we ever 
forget the familiar habit, the loved hat, 
the dainty gloves, the tiny boots, and those 
happy hours never to come to us again, as 
we look upon that face so dear to both of 
us, which now lies white and lifeless before 
us! 

"Carry her in," we say. "Carry her 
in." 




66 



LUSCIOUS FRUIT 



SAID the peach to the apple, "I do de- 
clare 
Your tree this year looks very bare, 
Just see how gorgeous in coloring am I, — 
There isn't a tree with me can vie." 

The apple replied, "Indeed you are fine; 
But wait 'till your beauty begins to decline. 
You can't be of use when that time comes, 
Thus resembling a family that we call 
plums. 

"On every swell table in winter we go, 
And also the grape that you worship so. 
Without me the salad forever would be 
Not the dainty luxury that now you see. 

"You rarely in winter have been out to 

dine, 
You've no idea of the things so fine. 
You know the grape, which is only a vine, 
Well, no banquet's complete without her 

wine. 

67 



LUSCIOUS FRUIT 



' ' You are awfully delicate, this you know, 
And couldn't stand a winter's blow; 
Your coat of velvet is soft and fine, 
But isn't so tough and smooth as mine. 

' ' For summer dressed, you look your best, 
And being so frail you require the rest 
That winter brings ; so you miss the sport, 
While I am taken to every resort. 

"I change my mood to suit the seasons; 
I can stand a journey for many reasons. 
Sometimes, in barrels I must go ; 
Though oftener from vinegar jugs I flow. 

"For apple-toddy I'm in demand; 
Over me sometimes they'll show their hand. 
I am indispensable, that is clear, 
Carrying sharpness with much good 
cheer. ' ' 

"But," answered the peach, "no reason I 

see 
Why they shouldn't look after the plum 

and me. 

68 



LUSCIOUS FRUIT 



We are so dainty and free from harm 
That we never occasion a sense of alarm. 

"If they'd cover me well in winter's prime, 
In a nice glass house, and let me climb, 
Sprinkling me well from time to time, 
I'd make a feast upon which to dine." 

"You don't know what you're talking 

about, ' ' 
Said the apple, then, with a little pout. 
"Ah, yes, I do," the peach replied, 
"For you'd be put on the dish inside, 

"While right on top they'd let me stand, 
Showing my blushes to all the land ; 
You'd only a rest or pedestal be 
To support my delicacy, don't you see! 

"They'd put fine grapes on the dish with 

me, 
But way below you'd surely be. 
Oh, yes, I know what I'm talking about; 
So, apple, you've cause to fret and pout. 

i i I shall go to dinners, and there I '11 shine, 
For I'll make a place for me and mine. 

69 



LUSCIOUS FRUIT 



At your innermost core you may rattle 

and rattle, 
My heart is a stone, with a kernel to battle. 

"I wish that you would also recall 
What they do with me in the early fall ; 
A brandied peach is in demand, 
And I am also good when I am canned. 

"I'll daintily blush and divided be; 
You haven't a ghost of a chance with me. 
You're no good in sauce, when I'm marma- 
lade; 
So please desist from this tirade. 

"It bruises me sadly and sorely to fight; 
You're stronger than I, which is your 

right ; 
But you'll never daintily flavored be, 
Like the white plum and blushing me. ' ' 

The apple glanced at the full peach-tree 
Of luscious fruit, then said to me, — 
"I guess I'll go in and take a nap. 
When a fellow's alone, he'd best not 
scrap." 

70 



«0 ^v^^v^«^s^v ( ^v^\^v^v^v^v^v<5a»^»o v ^v3i<<3i«o 

A MYSTERY 



A WAGON at the door? What do you 
mean, Lee Wah? What do you 
want, anyhow? I thought I came out here 
to this ranch to be absolutely away from 
interruptions. What time of night is it?" 

"Past midnight, sir; but I could not 
quite understand what it might all mean, 
— these noises and sounds so strange, and 
then some one pleading; and if you not 
mind, sir, to come very quietly with me 
into the little ante-room, you will maybe 
understand more than your poor China- 
man." 

Not feeling at all inclined to leave my 
comfortable bed, and somewhat wrathful 
at being disturbed at this late hour, for 
possibly some unnecessary cause, I very 
reluctantly got into my bath-robe, while 
my anxious and faithful Lee Wah looked 
about in the pitch darkness for my slip- 

71 



A MYSTERY 



pers, which he failed just at that moment 
to find. 

"Strike a match — light a candle, man; 
do anything, but let us see what we are 
about. ' ' 

"Ah, no, sir; do not make light, — dark 
best. We not know what they would do 
if they thought we here. They very bad 
men out there," pointing in the direction 
of the miserable shelter that served for a 
shed for our horses. "I know they must 
be bad not to be in bed and asleep at this 
hour, instead of digging, digging, digging, 
as they have been doing for the last two 
hours. And for what they dig? Why want 
they to make a big hole?" 

My curiosity was now fully aroused, and 
I could not too hastily reach the window 
in the ante-room, where Lee had bade me 
go. 

The small ranch was one I had rented 
for three months, that I might be absolutely 
away from cares and business worries, and 
I meant to enjoy every moment of it. And 
now, after only two nights, I had been thus 
aroused; not without cause, I felt sure 

72 



A MYSTERY 



now, as Lee Wall would use his power to 
save me any trouble ; and surely this was 
beyond his power. 

As I approached the door, I could dis- 
tinctly hear the sound of a shovel, or pos- 
sibly two of them, it seemed to me; or 
else one man was working very rapidly, 
so quickly did sound follow sound. I could 
see a faint light, so dim as to be scarcely 
larger than a lighted cigar, and once in 
many moments a dim flash-light. 

But where was Lee Wah? No spirit 
could move more quietly or quickly than 
he. I spoke his name softly, but no reply 
came. I groped around in the darkness, 
trying to find him, but, convincing myself 
that he was not in the room, I drew a chair 
close to the window and peered out into the 
night. 

Still the same unmistakable sounds. A 
shovel was being used to some purpose ; of 
this there could be no question. But why 
here ? Who would take the trouble to bring 
anything to this forsaken place, which 
meant at least twenty miles of horseback, 

73 



A MYSTERY 



when there were places just as secluded 
much nearer all the little villages round 
about this mountainous section of the coun- 
try? I could see absolutely nothing, and 
being about weary of watching and strain- 
ing my eyes and ears to grasp what could 
be going on not one hundred yards dis- 
tant, I was about to call out and ask the 
intruders why they were prowling on my 
premises, when I felt a slight draft, as if 
a door had been quickly opened, and, in 
less time than it takes to draw a breath, 
Lee Wah had entered and laid his hand 
warningly upon my shoulder, and with 
words trembling with excitement, whis- 
pered, — 

' l Do not move, sir ; do not speak. They 
bury something. I been out there. There 
is light on the other side, — a green light. 
I creep up, way out of sight and sound, 
and I watch. They have two horses. One 
horse velly good, other not good. Like me 
keep the good horse for you? You say, 
yes ? I do it velly easy. But you not move ; 
you not go easy like me. See?" 

Away he darted without saying where he 

74 



A MYSTERY 



was going or what was his motive. Lee 
Wah was truly enjoying the mystery, and 
I was becoming more and more curious 
every moment. The firm belief that I 
should be placed in the excavation, which 
must be finished by this time, if my pres- 
ence were known, alone kept me silent and 
indoors, which, according to my spirit of 
investigation, was about the most galling 
experience that I had ever encountered. 
And what if, after all, they should desire 
to enter the bungalow for rest and re- 
freshment ? How many were there of these 
midnight marauders, and of what calibre? 

The sound of digging ceased for a few 
moments, and then a different one succeeded 
it — thud ! thud ! Surely they were now re- 
placing the earth, for I could hear each 
shovelful descend. My meditations were 
again interrupted by the entrance of Lee 
Wah, who said, excitedly, — 

"I no leave you more; they soon go. 
They bury box, — small box. Wait, I tell 
you all after awhile. Maybe we get prize. 
Lee hope so. But no get good horse. " 

75 



A MYSTERY 



Before he had finished speaking I could 
hear the tramp of horses' feet, and an oc- 
casional low word as they rounded the 
shed and house and took their way down 
the mountain. Just below were the cross- 
roads leading to another ranch adjoining 
mine, and here I distinctly heard them 
come to a standstill. One of their horses 
neighed and one in my stable answered, 
which, coming so suddenly, threw me into 
a fever of anxiety for fear they should re- 
turn and demand our silence. The stillness 
was intense ; not a leaf moved or sound of 
living thing stirred our pulses. Then we 
heard them gallop away into the valley, 
farther and farther from us. 

Our imaginations ran high as we lighted 
our bull's-eye lantern and proceeded to the 
shed. Yes, everything was in place; not 
an implement was moved from where it 
had stood, but no sign of fresh earth any- 
where. 

"What does it mean, Lee Wah," I 
asked; "did they dig anywhere, or what 
were they doing?" 

76 



A MYSTERY 



"Yes, they dig," answered Lee Wah. 
" I show you some strange thing. They 
not go in shed. If they see horse they run 
away. They no see horse. They think 
there no one here, or they not dig. See ? I 
watch so long. They lift two boards, or 
something, and then they dig, and then they 
put down boards ; so it must be under steps 
or near pump. I not know. Green light 
no give good light. ' ' 

"Well," I exclaimed, "this is all non- 
sense. We must have been dreaming. I 
believe we have been hypnotized, or you 
put something in my wine for dinner. At 
any rate, I have had all I want this cold 
night, and shall turn in and go to sleep, and 
you can go on ferreting as long as you 
wish; but remember that you do not dis- 
turb me again. Nothing is to be gained in 
the dark, and the morning will give us a 
clew to this mystery; and, for my part, I 
am willing to wait. ' ' 

Feeling great satisfaction in taking this 
version of the situation, though inwardly 
filled with curiosity and thirst to know 

77 



A MYSTERY 



more, I turned on my heel and entered the 
bungalow, leaving poor bewildered Lee 
Wah to his own devices. 

But, alas, sleep was gone from me for 
the night. I could hear the two spades as 
distinctly as if they were still digging, dig- 
ging, digging, — my grave or Lee Wah's, — 
and I lay there as wide awake as any fel- 
low could be and heartily wishing that the 
day would dawn or some light be thrown 
on the remarkable occurrence of the past 
three hours. Then I saw a light pass along 
the wall, and I knew that Lee Wah was 
going to follow my example and go to bed. 

Before long a faint pale-yellow light ap- 
peared in the east, and I knew that morn- 
ing would soon chase away the unusual 
blackness of this never-to-be-forgotten 
night ; so I lay still and waited. 

I must have dropped to sleep, for I re- 
member nothing until much later, when I 
opened my eyes and saw poor Lee Wah 
with my cup of black coffee and hardtack. 

"Good-morning, Lee," I vouchsafe. "I 
have slept late. I had a bad dream last 

78 



A MYSTERY 



night. How did you sleep ? ' ' and I turned 
upon him a quizzical look. I shall never 
forget the expression that passed over the 
faithful fellow's face, as I realized that he 
thought I was making sport of him. 

Turning a more ashy color than I had 
ever seen him, with great dignity he re- 
plied, — 

"We had bad dream? No, sir!" And, 
as was his custom, he placed the tray on 
the table near me and silently left the room. 

Poor fellow! I knew his feelings were 
greatly wounded and that it would be bet- 
ter to not again allude to the night's mys- 
tery if I wished to retain him in my service 
for at least as long as my vacation lasted. 

I was in no hurry to arise, and after 
dressing leisurely, I walked out into the 
pasture to see my horses and take a general 
view of the surroundings. Lee Wah had 
been there before me. Eodger and Bill 
were eating their breakfast and they whin- 
nied as I approached. 

I looked for the print of horses ' hoofs in 
the road, but could detect no fresh ones. 

79 



A MYSTERY 



As I strolled on down toward the cross- 
roads, nothing betokened arrivals the night 
before. A piece of paper I remembered 
tearing up and throwing away was the first 
thing to attract my attention. I passed it 
by and proceeded on my way. Two pieces 
of wood, ronghly nailed together and 
swung by a bit of cowhide, served for my 
gate, and on one of these was firmly 
pressed, with a thumb tack, a piece of 
brown flannel, so much the color of the 
boards that a passer-by would never have 
noticed it. "This is why they halted/ ' I 
thought, "to make this fast, and thus to 
show accomplices where they had turned 
from the straight road. ,, 

All I could do was to await develop- 
ments ; but I did not much relish another 
night like that just passed, nor did I have 
it. Nothing more peaceful or restful could 
have been desired during the remainder of 
my three months in the ranch, though we 
were constantly on the lookout. A daily 
ride, sometimes a little shooting, a long 
walk, a bit of experimental gardening, and 

80 






A MYSTERY 



many trips to gather mushrooms, which 
were now in profusion in the meadows, 
served to make the days shorter and the 
nights more restful. And it was with keen 
disappointment that at last we closed and 
locked the door, and, mounting Rodger and 
Bill, rode away, back to the haunts of men 
and the bustling, restless life of the be- 
wildering city. 

I, for one, fully determined to return the 
next summer and prove that all we saw 
and heard that night was not a dream, nor 
too much of Lee Wah's excellent cocktail, 
in which he will always excel. 

Lee Wah still comes with my black 
coffee, and silently placing it upon the 
table, steals out as quietly as he did the 
night he said he saw those weird lights in 
the mountains. I have never had reason 
to doubt his word, and my own eyes and 
ears could not have failed me entirely. 

That some mystery lies buried there I 
have never questioned, nor my ability to 
fathom it; and for this purpose I have 
again rented the ranch, where I spent many 

6 81 



A MYSTERY 



satisfactory and peaceful days and only 
one restless night. Lee Wah has recovered 
from his wounded feelings, and is quite 
eager and willing to assist me in fathoming 
the mystery. 




82 



ON THE DOCK 

PUSH off from the dock there, my 
beauty ; 
Push far away into the stream ; 
The current is flowing so swiftly; 
Wherefore do you stagger and dream? 

Hoist the soiled, storm-beaten sails, 

Be off, for no longer I'll wait. 
There's mending, and rope to tar. You 
fool! 

Stand by. Can't you walk straight? 

" A bit of a wreck you are," you say. 

Pray who is to blame for this % 
Hear the wind as it roars and whistles. 

There's a liner going out, I wis. 

Stand to your yards there, I tell you ; 

Up with a sail or two. 
Are you stark and staring mad, man % 

Look out ! What 's the matter with you ? 

83 



ON THE DOCK 



' ' You want to engage a man ? ' ' Eh, there ? 

' ' Yon can find a sailor, ' ' yon say, 
"Who will help you on this journey ;" 

Well, I tell you, I say — Nay ! 

No, not at the eleventh hour 
Will I list to a word from you. 

Go straight ahead, do you hear, man 1 
Way out where the ocean's blue. 

"Lost confidence in your sailing?" 
Better have known that before. 

I tell you, hoist a sail there, 
And get away from the shore ! 

A laggard I never have known you ; 

But it's only a sailor's trick, 
Trumped up at this late hour, 

For you're never a moment sick. 

Get a move on you. Take that, my laddie ; 

You should now be far away ; 
What's the use of sitting idle? 

What is it you want to say? 

84 



ON THE DOCK 



No time have I now for talking ; 

Action is the order to-day ; 
So lift your laggard body, 

Look to yourself, and away ! 

Away ! where the breeze is freshening 
And the gulls sail light and free ; 

Away with this lump of cargo ; 
Buckle down to the job for me. 

" You hoped for another man," say you? 

"Who could help you on this trip." 
Oh, no ; you 're the fellow I wanted. 

Get away there with your ship ! 

1 ' Excuse ? ' ' What excuse can you offer ? 

You're a lazy scoundrel, Max Treg. 
Lift yourself! Do you hear me, you rascal? 

" Broken?" What is broken? Your leg? 



"So it happened that way, ' ' did it, laddie ? 

"You saved my little boy's life; 
And this is the price that it cost you? 

And the money you want's for your 
wife?" 

85 



ON THE DOCK 



c i 



You must go on this ship, for she's 

starving? 
And some other fellow, with you, 
Could have carried the cargo so safely, 
And the cost would be little for two?" 



Well, Max Treg, you strong, honest fellow, 

The day of reckoning is near ; 
Go home to your wife, and your baby; 

In the future you've nothing to fear. 



I'm done with the blamed shipping busi- 
ness; 

This cargo may go to the dogs. 
Sufficient have I for my laddie, 

And you may sell all of these logs. 



Here, take this chink with you, my brave 
one; 
Get a surgeon, the best in the town ; 

"The bill for this?"— Say I will settle- 
Wipe off from your forehead that frown. 



ON THE DOCK 



When you're well we can talk matters 
over; 

For the present you'd best not delay. 
Here, carry this fellow, you stokers, 

And do with him just as I say. 




87 



^ k> ?&$<> k> fa k> fa> §<> k> $&>$<> fc> fc> fa 



KSC^5D^K3K3K3 



fafafafafafafafafafafafafafafa 

TRAPPED 

IN the heart of one of our large cities, 
palpitating with joy, business and in- 
terest, there is to-day a locality which one 
may visit by night, accompanied by a guide, 
to inspect the opium dens, the theatres, and 
churches for which it is world-famous. So 
novel and alluring is it to all visitors that 
one may spend hours there, unconscious of 
the flight of time, and even forgetful of 
all that makes life most desirable. The 
fascination, though revolting, is complete, 
and there are screened rooms innumerable 
which one dare not look into, unless 
permission so to do has been given by the 
guide, who never ceases by his vigilance 
to give satisfaction and deference to those 
inside, who own and guard every secret 
door, passage, and closet. Should a detec- 
tive enter, on any pretext, and be recog- 
nized, or should suspicion rest on those 
passing through, their penalty would be a 

88 



TRAPPED 



life of horror and torture, or a speedy 
death ; and yet so great is the curiosity of 
strangers that few persons visiting the 
place fail to avail themselves of a view 
by night, with a suitable guide, of all the 
strange sights it affords. 

Into this region, two or three stories 
underground, Mr. and Mrs. Venture de- 
scended, unattended by the necessary 
guide, feeling such confidence in them- 
selves that they feared nothing, nor could 
possibly imagine the dire calamity crawl- 
ing closer and closer like a serpent at their 
heels. Inspecting as they went each cor- 
ner and cranny, they never for one mo- 
ment imagined that their inspection was 
but a circumstance to the inspection of 
those who watched and waited their chance 
to commit the terrible crime which they 
were contemplating. 

Pausing for a moment before a screened 
door, they were accosted in English by a 
man asking very politely, i i Can I not show 
you the most noted den we have, — the great 
opium hall!" 



TRAPPED 



With delight at their good luck, and anx- 
ious to see all, they replied, with interest : 
' l Certainly, yes ; we should be delighted, ' ' 
and started forward to accompany their 
supposed benefactor, who, with an apolo- 
getic wave of his hand and a seductive 
smile, replied: " Not madame, no. No 
ladies are allowed to enter, — only the gen- 
tleman. I will place a chair for the lady, 
right here. See, close to the door, where 
she may wait until we return. It will not 
take long. The gentleman can tell madame 
about it some day. ' ' 

The opium hall was filled with persons of 
all ages, — men, women, and boys, conscious, 
half-conscious, and just losing conscious- 
ness from the effect of the fell drug. Young 
and old of both sexes, with faces bearing 
the horrid, jaded expression of imbeciles, 
haggard and worn, and again others with 
the look of happy contentment on their 
faces as they began to smoke for the first 
time their opium pipes and to dream of 
happy days that would never come to them. 
The scene, though licentious and depraving 

90 



TRAPPED 



in the extreme, was weirdly fascinating, 
and partook of a color qnite different from 
anything Mr. Venture had ever experi- 
enced. 

Time and time again conviction came to 
his mind that he had seen enough and must 
breathe fresher and purer air; and when 
at last they turned to leave the hall, Mr. 
Venture found an hour had flown, and 
feared that his wife would be weary from 
the long delay. 

Passing out, as he supposed, at the same 
door by which he had entered, and expect- 
ing to be greeted with a slight rebuff for 
his long absence, he found that he was 
quite alone. No trace of his wife was 
there, and though he spoke her name aloud, 
there was no response. A feeling of numb- 
ness paralyzed every muscle, and cold per- 
spiration broke out in great beads upon his 
forehead. 

" Where is my wife?" he asked. 

And a dozen or more voices came hissing 
out from behind numerous screens : "How 



91 



TRAPPED 



do we know? We did not see where she 
went. ' ' 

A conviction too horrible to think of 
flashed across his mind, and he knew that 
he himself might at any moment be placed 
in confinement. Realizing the terrible posi- 
tion he was in and that his imprisonment 
would mean total inability to help her, and 
being now well assured that he was the 
victim of villanous intrigue and that his 
only chance to save her was escape, that 
he might procure the best detectives and 
lay his case before the authorities, with 
feelings akin to madness he groped his way 
along the dark and dirty passages, through 
innumerable small dens, where no one gave 
heed to him, all being in drunken stupors, 
until after what seemed hours to him he at 
last, after climbing a forlorn staircase, saw 
the lights of the street and breathed fresher 
air. 

Thank God! there was an officer just 
opposite, and hastily crossing the street to 
where he stood he told of his terrible ex- 
perience, expecting sympathy and help and 

92 



TRAPPED 



prompt action; but to his horror was 
greeted with a surly shrug and these words, 
which turned his blood cold : ' ' You should 
not have gone there without a guide. I 
can do nothing; there is no help in that 
mad hole. They only permit persons with 
guides to go through because they give 
them large sums of money, and they want 
money.' ' 

' ' I will give you anything you ask ; take 
it to them and bring her to me here," he 
replied. 

"No, I could not; there is no help," he 
reiterated. 

i ' No help, ' ' cried Mr. Venture, in agony. 
"Are you mad and drunk, too, or am II 
Do such things exist in a civilized com- 
munity? " 

Springing into a cab, he ordered: "To 
the chief of police. Drive for life or death, 
man ! ' ' 

Alas, the misery and wretchedness of it 
all! Can you believe it? There was no 
redress; and after two years of fruitless 
search and hopeless expectation, in which 

93 



TRAPPED 



the thought of saving her alone kept him 
from absolute madness, he returned to his 
dear native town. 

One year later he was told by a friend, 
who had visited the place with a guide, that 
he had accidentally seen his wife by open- 
ing a forbidden door; she was entirely 
demented; and his forwardness had 
almost cost him his life ere he had reached 
the street; and that now, even though ac- 
companied by a guide, no one could enter 
the accursed locality of sin, iniquity, and 
debauchery. 

He returned at once, hopeless, weary, 
and maddened, to try and procure, if pos- 
sible, the assistance of the authorities to 
exterminate forever such a blot in the heart 
of a great city and to give him back his 
wife. 

Alas, he waited ; and is waiting, he real- 
izes, in vain! 



graces 

is* 



94 




SENTINEL-LIKE AT THE GARDEN GATE 
STANDS THE LILY, TALL AND STRAIGHT 



BXSXSXSXSXSJ 



HIGH LIFE IN MY GARDEN 



SENTINEL-LIKE at the garden gate 
Stands the lily, tall and straight; 
While close by, on the other side, 
Her stiff, cold mate I also spied. 
Then growing nearer, close to the ground, 
Head graciously bent, a pansy I found. 
A bright little pansy, to all of us dear, 
Its tiny sweet face carrying thoughts of 

good cheer. 
The lily looked coldly, ungraciously down, 
And on her stern visage she carried a 

frown. 
The pansy looked up, for she hoped to find 
Some pleasant companion of cheerful mind. 
But never one bit does the lily unbend ; 
And the pansy grieved for one stanch 

friend. 
Then turning her face to the other side, 
A large ranunculus there she spied. 

95 



HIGH LIFE IN MY GARDEN 

"You, too, are bigger than I!" she cried. 
" But, please, make friends with me," she 

sighed. 
And the sturdy ranunculus bowed and 

bowed, 
Making the heart of the pansy proud. 



II 

Then the pansy talked in her pleasant way, 
And old ranunculus grew quite gay, 
And smiled all over when pansy told, 
"That a lily's heart should be made of 

gold; 
For the two big lilies, tall and white, 
Have put me in a terrible plight; 
While you, ranunculus, in plain homespun, 
Are everlastingly full of fun. ' ' 
* ' They are vain and proud ; but the world 

is wide, 
So let them pass on the other side, ' ' 
Was the sage advice of ranunculus brave, 
Who from trouble his friend would save. 
"Others there are like the lilies, I'm told; 
They have a place in their world to hold. 

96 



HIGH LIFE IN MY GARDEN 

And what I know may be out of date, 
But who ever cared for cold-hearted prate ? 
You can hold your own, I've always heard. 
Their being stuck-up is quite absurd. 
Take heed to my saying, — wise and seer, — 
They can't hold a candle to you, my dear." 




97 



A REMINISCENCE OF CONSTANTI- 
NOPLE 



WE are passing Adrianople, our train 
guarded by officers sleeping at our 
doors, also five on the locomotive, and 
eagerly awaiting the sight of that city of 
seven hills, like Eome, the Sweet Waters of 
Europe, and the novel and alluring sights 
that will greet us on every side. 

Our train comes to a stand-still at last. 
"We see many dark, strange, handsome 
faces awaiting us, but are on the lookout 
for our dragoman, Demetrius Coufopoulos. 
We see him at last, with a white flower in 
his button-hole, — the signal agreed upon, — 
and he also recognizes us as the party by 
whom he has been engaged, as we too have 
a white flower placed in the book we carry. 
He greets us in his own native fashion, 
takes one small hand-bag, and directs a 
Turk standing by to relieve us of our other 
traps. We are too much interested to 

98 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



know just what happens. We are walking 
towards the carriage, seeming to see noth- 
ing but Turks, Turks, Turks, of such mag- 
nificent physique and dark eyes. 

The poor, noisy, vociferating hamals are 
waiting to carry on their backs our trunks 
to the hotel, and for this purpose a sort of 
saddle is strapped upon them. We turn 
away from the sight, for they are bent 
double, resting their hands upon their 
knees as they walk. We see any number of 
these poor creatures with all sorts of 
household necessities piled high upon their 
backs and staggering beneath the enor- 
mous weight. We cannot realize how they 
can carry so much or how it is possible for 
them to stand erect when the burden is re- 
moved from them. 

It takes but a few minutes to reach our 
hotel, and we see much to interest us as we 
turn street after street and pass the Rue 
Pera, and at every few steps halt to make 
way for the countless number of mangy, 
half-starved pariah dogs, with which the 
city is overflowing. The unearthly cries of 

99 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



the muleteers, donkey-drivers, and hawk- 
ers of all sorts, yelling at the top of their 
voices, add to the din and confusion every- 
where. 

What would Constantinople be without 
these dogs? We wanted to kill every one 
of them, and the same desire still remains 
with us. They make the streets filthy by 
day and hideous at night by their snarls 
and growls, but are looked upon as the 
guardian angels of the city. They can 
never be understood, with any accuracy, by 
those who have never seen them. Oh, 
strange and fascinating city, interesting 
and absorbing; never quiet even at night, 
when all the natives turn out for their 
holiday, singing and whistling, calling out 
their wares, accompanied by the full or- 
chestra of dogs, which are always fed at 
midnight. You cannot picture it; do not 
attempt to. Go and see for yourself, for all 
words of mine would prove superfluous. 
Byron, Shelley, great men and women of 
every age have brilliantly pictured its 

charms, the magnificence of its mosques, 
100 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



mausoleums, and palaces. This pen would 
prove feeble indeed were it to attempt to 
describe what is known only too well to all 
those who have experienced the delight of 
a visit, or the pleasure of the literature of 
all ages. 

We are most comfortably settled and 
have had the ever vigilant and willing 
guidance of Coufopoulos. Have paid nu- 
merous visits to the exquisitely beautiful 
mosques, been entertained at Dolman 
Baghcheh Palace, had a row in the Sultan's 
caique with his four oarsmen from Bu- 
meli Hissar to Sweet Waters and back to 
Galata Bridge, watching the natives eat 
something like hokey-pokey, and enjoying 
their holiday drifting about, the women 
with half-concealed faces and the men 
strong and dark. 

The Constantinople streets are narrow, 

dirty, miserably paved alleys, and through 

these daily we went, either on foot or by 

carriage, for there are few sidewalks or 

pavements. The garbage is placed on the 

street, in front or back of the houses, and 
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Allah's assistance is invoked to send rain 
to wash it away. If Allah declines to re- 
spond, then it is a sign that Allah does not 
wish it removed, and it remains until Al- 
lah graciously consents. Alas, modern 
sewerage is unknown. 

Through these alleys we threaded our 
way one day to see the Whirling Dervishes, 
who perform a terrible novitiate, supposed 
to be a revival of Hindoo mysteries, — a 
gyrating dance lasting one hundred and 
one days. However, these Dervishes cannot 
compare to the terrible and revolting sight 
of EufaM and Badavi, or the Howling Der- 
vishes, where mere infants are brought in 
at the close of the whirling, howling per- 
formance and the head Dervish actually 
walks upon the bodies of these poor chil- 
dren, whose screams rend the air. But as 
this is supposed to immune them from sick- 
ness, their parents smilingly see the torture 
the poor beings suffer. This part of the 
service takes place after the Dervishes have 
howled, jumped, and shaken themselves 
until they are ready to foam at the mouth. 

102 







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CONSTANTINOPLE 



All visitors wait until the performance is 
over. 

I shall not attempt to do justice to Dol- 
mah Baghcheh Palace, or can I omit speak- 
ing of it. Gorgeous beyond description, 
with its chimney-pieces of malachite, crys- 
tal candelabra with two hundred and fifty 
candles, porcelains from Sevres. The great 
stairway is inlaid with wood and crystal; 
the bath-rooms for the sultanas are built 
entirely, tubs and all, of Oriental alabaster. 

The mosques, of course, claimed a great 
deal of our attention. Here the most rigid 
decorum is expected. On entering, each 
one must put on a much-used and dirty pair 
of slippers, which are provided, or you may 
bring your own. The worshippers kneel 
upon entering, then salaam while three 
priests slightly raised above the others in- 
tone the prayer. They form in rows of 
four or five, prostrating themselves when 
Allah's name is mentioned. 

We went to St. Sophia on Friday at noon, 
and remained during the entire service, this 
being the particular day of importance, ex- 

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cept during Bamazan. This mosque is 
known to exceed in magnificence all the 
other mosques which have been built upon 
the same model. One hundred architects 
were employed, each one having under him 
one hundred workmen; five thousand 
working on the right side, and five thousand 
working on the left ; each wing vieing with 
the other for the completion of their work. 
A curious superstition is that this 
whilom church is haunted every Easter eve 
by a chorus of angels. There are still to 
be found Greeks and Mohammedans who 
aver that they have heard this angelic 
chorus. However, as the Emperor had 
given it to be known that he had conversed 
with an angel in a dream, and that she had 
told him where to procure all the costly ma- 
terials for the decoration of the mosque, it 
is not surprising that superstition among 
a most superstitious people will always add 
to the interest of St. Sophia. Ivory, amber, 
cedar, and silver play a prominent part in 
the building, while nearly every kind of 
marble known is to be found here, — the 

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CONSTANTINOPLE 



green marble from Laconia, the white, 
black- veined Bosporus marble, the white 
Phrygian marble, with its beautiful pink 
streaks, and many others from Europe and 
Asia Minor. 

The mosque of Sultan Bayazid, or ' * Pig- 
eon Mosque,' ' has a most beautiful court- 
yard, and here street-venders of Oriental 
perfumes, rosaries, letter-writers, and seal- 
cutters may be found, also the pigeons may 
be fed, as at San Marco, in Venice. 

During Eamazan, stalls are erected for 
the sale of Persian and Egyptian sweets. 
The "Kiosks' ' are numerous and attrac- 
tive. Here they serve tea, preserved rose 
leaves, and sweetened water. 

We have gone dressed in our best, which 
is necessary to the Salamlik, which is a 
most brilliant spectacle and compares to 
a levee at Buckingham Palace. We were 
obliged to wait two hours to obtain a win- 
dow. The troops appeared and took their 
position, cavalry and infantry followed — 
magnificent specimens of men; then the 
Sultan's favorite wives drew up, closely 

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CONSTANTINOPLE 



guarded, and their carriages stopped near 
the entrance to the mosque ; next the Sultan 
arrived, being driven in an open landau, 
with Asma Pasha facing him. The bugle 
sounded, and the high priest in the mina- 
ret called them to prayer, and, with his 
troops and ministers on horseback sur- 
rounding him, he stepped from his carriage 
upon a magnificent silk rug and entered 
the mosque. 

The horses were taken from the car- 
riages in which sat the sultanas, closely 
veiled and guarded by eunuchs. 

We were served with coffee and tea dur- 
ing the hour the Sultan remained in the 
mosque, as a mark of courtesy from him 
to his visitors. 

At last he appeared. Stepping into 
another carriage, drawn by two magnifi- 
cent white horses, and, taking the reins, 
drove himself back to the Seraglio. The 
marvellous effect of the sunlight on the 
wonderful silver trappings beggars de- 
scription. 

Our dragoman told us the Sultan ex- 

106 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



pected his guests to cheer him as he passed 
the house occupied by us, the Visitors' Pa- 
vilion, which had been provided by him for 
foreigners. This we did, and he saluted us 
in return. 

Added to our novel surroundings were 
the beautiful, tall, spiral minarets tower- 
ing white and impressive wherever you 
turned, and the calls from the top at stated 
intervals lent a double charm. 

This remarkable chanting in a loud voice 
is singularly fascinating and is as follows : 
"Allah Akber, Allah Akber; Essehadou 
Allah il laha il-allah; Essehadou Allah 
il laha il allah; Essehadou anneh Mo- 
hammadan ressool ul-lah; Essehadou an- 
neh Mohammadan ressool ul-lah, Haayah- 
allah sal-lah Haayah allah sal-lah; Haa- 
yah al ul-f ellah Haayah al ul-f ellah ; Allah 
Akber, Allah Akber; La il lah il Allah/ ' 

Great one, I avow there is no God but 
God. I avow that Muhammad is his 
Prophet. Let us go save our souls. Let 
us go and pray. God is great. In the 
name of God the only God. 

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CONSTANTINOPLE 



This prayer is chanted five times in 
every twenty-four hours by the " Muez- 
zin/ ' or deacon, who occupies a gallery 
near the top of the " mine rah' ' chanting 
in as loud a voice as possible. 

Alas, the day is drawing near when we 
must say "au revoir" to all these strange 
charms and customs and in memory carry 
with us the fascination that we felt dur- 
ing our visit. 

This is the beautiful side of Constanti- 
nople, the dark, treacherous side is too 
black to picture. Innocence is preyed upon 
and disappearances are of frequent oc- 
currence. Our dragoman was watchful and 
careful, and a few days before our depart- 
ure, which was hastened on account of the 
severity of the earthquake shocks, I was 
anxious to procure some photographs; so 
dressing earlier than was my wont and not 
caring to breakfast, I hastily left the hotel 
alone, and passing on to the Eue Per a, en- 
tered a photographic shop, where I found 
a large number of pictures displayed. Se- 
lecting those I desired, I was about to de- 

108 




SUPERSTITION AMONG A MOST SUPERSTITIOUS PEOPLE WILL 
ALWAYS ADD TO THE INTEREST OF ST. SOPHIA 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



part with my purchases when a lady and 
gentleman entered who had occupied the 
next compartment to ours on the outward 
journey. We knew each other by name and 
exchanged some pleasant words. I have 
every reason now to believe that this 
chance meeting saved my life, or kept me 
from a life worse than death. As I was 
about leaving the shop a door opened at 
one side, where there was a short flight of 
steps, and a Frenchman descended, and 
coming towards me, asked, — 

" Would not mademoiselle like a picture 
taken in Constantinople ? ' ' 

The idea appealed to me, and I assented 
very willingly, and following him up the 
steps, we entered a fine, large gallery. A 
chair was placed for me to stand by, but 
to my horror I noticed that one of the three 
men who were in the room locked the door 
by which we had entered and placed the 
key in his pocket. The picture was taken, 
and a door thrown open leading to a small 
ante-room, where I might rest, they said 



109 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



until they ascertained if the negative were 
good. 

I replied I was not tired, and would stay- 
where I was. To this they made no objec- 
tion. 

My mind and eyes were upon that locked 
door, and every wit in my head was at 
work. I knew that absolute fearlessness 
and calmness were my only safeguard, and 
when one of the men again entered the 
room and pronounced the negative excel- 
lent in his seductive French voice, I arose 
preparatory to leaving, only to be detained 
by the request, — 

" Would not mademoiselle like to have a 
photograph of herself in Turkish costume ? 
Please step into the other room and change 
your clothe s." 

"I have not time to-day,' ' I replied, 
thinking only of that locked door and not 
realizing what I was saying. 

Stepping very close to me, he insisted, 
saying — 

"It will not take long." 

The other two men then entered the 
no 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



room, and all desired the same thing. I 
was now fully aware of my dangerous posi- 
tion. In Turkish costume it would be easy 
to remove suspicion from me and my 
whereabouts, and all traces of me would be 
completely obliterated. While viewing the 
situation as calmly as I might, a happy 
thought came to me, which I made use 
of promptly. 

"I have friends downstairs who are 
waiting for me. I will come to-morrow," 
I continued. 

A dark, angry flush overspread their 
features, and in a language I did not rec- 
ognize they parleyed for a moment; then 
the man who had locked the door took from 
his pocket the key and allowed me to pass 
through, saying, — 

"Oh, you have friends downstairs. Only 
because you promise to come to-morrow 
without friends will I allow you to pass. 
To-morrow,' ' he repeated. 

What was my horror on descending the 

stairs to find the two travelling companions 

gone, whom I had hoped to see; but my 
in 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



exit was easy, and I hastened to return to 
the hotel. Alas ! when I reached it I found 
faithful Coufopoulos wringing his hands 
and every one crazed with suspicion. 

"I should have been obliged to give my 
life for you had you not returned," said 
our faithful dragoman. "Oh, mademoi- 
selle, never do such a thing again. It was 
terrible. We have spent an hour watching 
and praying. No one knew where you had 
gone. You might never have come back. 
Many people go like that." 

"I only went for a few photographs of 
the mosques, ' ' I replied. 

However, I did not venture out of sight 
of Coufopoulos again. 

Now the ancient bridge to Stambul no 
longer exists, but another takes its place. 
There we spent many hours. It is a mar- 
vellous kaleidoscopic view. Venders sell- 
ing every street sweet-meat known to 
mankind. How we enjoyed the macaroons, 
as big as saucers, so deliciously seasoned 
with sweet almond and so molasses-candy 

like. They were sold on large sheets of 
112 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



white paper, like old-fashioned white and 
pink mint drops. 

"We never passed a certain vender with- 
out getting a sheet or two of them, and he 
got to know ns so well that we conld not 
have avoided him if we had wished. I fancy 
I can see tears in his eyes now when he 
missed ns, and realized that no more 
" paras' ' from ns wonld fall into his dirty, 
capacious pockets. The last macaroons we 
bought from him, we threw in some extra 
coins, and tried to explain that we were 
going away the next day; but he would 
not understand, and said, — 

1 i You come to-morrow, I speak English. ' ' 

In memory how one can drift to Constan- 
tinople. Far away one's thoughts can 
travel, on and on, and then come back with 
a joyful bound to where we are, and the 
glad realization that all the delights that 
we have read about are ours to see and 
realize. 

How fortunate we are, without a care 
worthy of mention, to be able to indulge 
ourselves in these pleasant luxuries, drift- 

8 113 



CONSTANTINOPLE 



ing wherever our fancy may dictate, know- 
ing we can return home whenever we wish, 
or wander miles and miles away. 

Oh, the glorious sunsets, the enchanting 
moonrise, with the beautiful minarets pen- 
cilled so gracefully. We wave you fare- 
well, bustling, noisy, absorbing, bad-smell- 
ing Constantinople, we shall never say 
good-by to you; for when one has once 
lived with you they can never part from 
you. Nay, it is impossible to say good-by. 
We take you with us wherever we go, and 
some day we shall return. So au revoir, 
Constantinople. Most interesting and 
fascinating of Oriental cities, au revoir. 




114 



AURORA 

SILENTLY, fall the shadows, 
Silently, night creeps on, 
With its veil of sombre covering, 
To await the break of dawn. 

Hushed, the song of the robin, 

Hushed is the heavy tread 
Of the artisans home returning, 

Who toil for their daily bread. 

Peace reigns over the household, 

Peace is abroad in the air; 
Eest for the faithful watcher, 

As she wearily climbs the stair. 

She has known sorrow and sadness, 
And longs for the quiet of home ; 

But no word of complaint escapes her, 
As she enters her room, alone. 

115 



AURORA 



Poor, patient, care-worn sufferer; 

Take hold of that outstretched hand; 
Rest your burdens upon the Master, 

Who dwells in that happy land. 

Lovingly His arms will enfold you ; 

The dawn is beginning to break ; 
The clarion peals through the silence, 

Rise to its call — and awake ! 

A glorious radiance is spreading, 

The night is passing away ; 
The angels ' choir she faintly hears 

Welcoming the break of day. 




116 



CS2CSJK2tS3CS3KJ 



SNAP 



HE stands to-day as he did then, or 
this story would never have been 
written. I should have passed out of life 
possibly unheard of and unknown, and he 
too would have gone with his master. 

I had never tried or cared to make many 
friends. People had never filled any very 
important part of my life. It may have 
been unfortunate, — I never stopped to 
question the matter, — but in a short time 
they wearied and oppressed me, hanging 
like a weight too heavy for me to carry. 
I could not come into harmony with their 
narrow, cramped lives, thoughts, views, 
and aims ; they were rarely of any lasting 
interest to me, and I seemed not to be of 
any particular importance to them; so no 
one was apparently the loser. I wish them 
all the happiness in their lives that daily 
fell to my lot. 

Animals had always been my one absorb • 

117 



SNAP 



ing passion. It took them but a very short 
time to understand me ; and if it does not 
seem like placing too much confidence in 
my powers of divination, I might say I 
understood them at once. I had so far led 
a gloriously untrammelled life among my 
books, dogs, and horses, — never-failing 
companions. A crack of my whip was all 
the latter required, being ever as ready as 
I for anything that might appeal to our 
fancy. Alas! I dread to look back upon 
all that I have lost, when in the twinkling 
of an eye they were swept from me, and I 
never, never saw them again, my horses, 
dogs, and books. Oh, the enjoyment of 
those hours! How the memory overflows 
every fibre of my being ! 

However, I had my favorites, and among 
them was Snap, — a brown horse of power- 
ful muscle, marvellous endurance, and al- 
most human intelligence, cob-built, flat- 
boned, and as agile as a deer. There was 
nothing too difficult that he would not have 
done for me, and he perfectly understood 
my appreciation of him. Allowed to roam 

118 



SNAP 



where lie liked, his stable door was always 
left open. He was lord and master of his 
surroundings, and indeed at times of me 
also. 

Upon one occasion a villanous cat had 
jumped upon a prize pup I highly valued, 
and thrusting her claws treacherously in 
his flesh, would have scratched him to 
death, had not Snap come to his rescue, and 
sinking his teeth deeply in her fur, made 
her loose her hold, and promptly picking 
up the pup by the nape of his neck, carried 
him to a place of safety, namely, the man- 
ger in his stall. I hope his conscience re- 
warded him, for I had no adequate means 
of showing my approval of his act, and the 
row of prizes in my library are of sufficient 
eloquence to vouch for the value of the 
pup. 

He also had developed my dislike for 
cows. How many amusing anecdotes I 
could tell about his experiences in the 
meadows. He showed his absolute con- 
tempt for the herd by refusing to occupy 
the same enclosure ; no fence was of suffi- 

119 



SNAP 



cient height to keep him in a field where 
they pastured. The expression of his 
upper lip was proof enough of his inner 
feelings ; up it would tilt, until you could 
see his strong white teeth, then he would 
sniff the air, and over the fence he would 
come without further warning. There was 
no fear in his breast for them, as I had at 
first imagined; the only things he really 
feared were weasels. His eyes showed this 
only too plainly, and he would whinny and 
kick viciously when they would upon occa- 
sions attack the chickens. He made him- 
self master of the paddock as well as of 
the barnyard, but I never knew him to be 
guilty of a mean act. 

I have known him to walk for miles, like 
a docile dog, beside my carriage, when after 
a severe accident I was compelled to drive 
over my vast domain, — for Snap had never 
been invited to wear harness, saddle and 
bridle being his only equipment. 

During my convalescence he came trot- 
ting up to the porch one day where I lay 

in the hammock, enjoying the perusal of a 
120 



SNAP 



new book fresh from the publishers, and 
something about his whole bearing seemed 
to be pleading to me to come for a canter. 
He stood and looked at me with his great 
intelligent eyes, in which I fancied I de- 
tected reproof; at any rate, I realized I 
was falling short of his expectations. 

I think this act hastened my recovery, 
for I was getting somewhat lazy these days. 
Books and animals were vieing for the 
upper hand. It was incumbent upon me 
to get back into my accustomed ways or 
lose the respect of my horse. It seemed a 
reproach to me that I had been too long 
recovering. I was almost ashamed of being 
sick. From that day I took more exercise, 
and before another week had passed was 
again on his back. 

He never looked gayer or prouder as I 

stood watching his saddle being made fast, 

giving me his foot in handshake many 

times and pawing the ground in impatience 

when I failed to respond. At last I was 

in the saddle. Curious to say, he stood like 

a lamb while I mounted. Never before had 
121 



SNAP 



he behaved so well. Mounting was the only 
difficulty I had ever experienced with Snap, 
for at such times he would always take it 
into his head to turn round and round, ap- 
parently desirous of seeing me, but -most 
disastrous to mounting quickly. As a 
young horse I had not discouraged this 
bit of coquetry, for I was agile myself, 
and it never much annoyed me; it had 
grown with his years, which now numbered 
seven, and seemed to convey to my mind 
his willingness to permit only his master 
to ride him. To my knowledge no one else 
had ever tried. 

We loved each other. That is saying all 
for horse and rider. The sound of my 
voice was sufficient encouragement or re- 
proof, and I know he understood every 
word I said to him. Have you who see 
horses every day ever realized what the 
love for them may mean and the agony of 
being obliged to part with them when they 
have filled the larger, better part of your 
life? 

Many times have I ridden him without a 
122 



SNAP 



bridle, using my hand on his neck to direct 
him, and he never in all these years failed 
to obey my signal. My hand placed on his 
back was indicative of my desire to return 
home, which he sometimes obeyed too 
promptly. If my mood were in accord with 
his, he would trot gayly back; if not, he 
would walk and snort, as if inviting me 
to prolong our journey. 

We had been busier than was our wont 
one day, and when night came were well 
fagged out, on account of being obliged to 
oversee many breaks made in the roads and 
bridges, occasioned by the recent heavy 
rains. A large dam near the house had 
threatened to give way, and I had ridden 
many times to take a look at it ; but every- 
thing seemed out of danger now, and all 
hands had turned in for a good night's rest. 

It must have been about three o'clock, 
for I had enjoyed a quiet refreshing sleep, 
when I was aroused by a most unusual oc- 
currence, — Snap whinnying sharp and con- 
tinuously beneath my window, seeming to 
presage danger. Eising, I drew apart the 

123 



SNAP 



curtains and looked out. All was dark and 
still, — a stillness I could feel, — and I too 
imagined some danger near. 

"What's the matter, Snap!" I asked. 

Again he whinnied, seemingly in excited 
pleasure, and I could hear him stamping 
the ground; and as my eyes got accus- 
tomed to the dark, I could also distinguish 
him, and realized that every nerve was 
alert with restlessness. 

"Wait, old boy," I said. "Ill be down 
in a moment." But he never ceased to 
whinny. 

Dressing hastily and descending, I 
opened the front door and passed out. 
Alas ! never again shall my foot cross that 
loved threshold. How uncertain is life; 
how much keener the appreciation of love 
when all is lost. 

Snap at once led the way to the stable, 
encouraging me to follow him, which I, like 
a docile dog, did. Being anxious to accede 
to his unspoken request and curious to 
know his wishes, I was somewhat interested 



124 



SNAP 



when he came to a standstill in the spot 
where he was accustomed to be saddled. 

"Want me to go for a ride, do you? 
Where, Snap ? What will you have me un- 
derstand, eh?" and I patted him on the 
neck. 

However, I placed the saddle upon his 
back by the dim light of the candle which I 
had lighted, and which stood upon an up- 
turned bucket, then I made fast the girths ; 
but just as the last strap was buckled, what 
was my horror to hear a terrible sound, like 
the roaring of many waters, and a cry of 
terror that will remain forever indelibly 
impressed upon my memory, though I did 
not understand then half what its meaning 
signified, or what the next few hours would 
bring to me. 

1 ' The dam has broken ! Fly, every one, 
for your lives! Fly!" rang out through 
the intense stillness and pitch darkness of 
that night. 

Will you believe me when I say that my 
first thought was for Snap ? When I threw 
myself upon his back it was to save him, not 

125 



SNAP 



for self-preservation. This last thought 
followed my first impulse. Bridleless he 
dashed out into the darkness, carrying me 
with him, leaving the little candle casting 
its tiny flickering rays upon the hard, bare 
boards. How often I recall it, and how 
soon its pale light went out. The cries of 
the tenants ringing in our ears filled us 
with terror. 

On, on we dashed in mad, furious haste, 
whither I knew not. The ground seemed 
bad and uneven. It was impossible to dis- 
tinguish the well-known objects we were 
forever leaving behind us. On, on to de- 
struction, or what? Alas! What? The 
day will never dawn when I shall forget 
that wild, mad dash for life and the conse- 
quences of that fatal night. 

Now I can hear the splashing and gur- 
gling of water and realize that Snap is 
dashing through several inches of it, that it 
is rising higher and higher. Yes, it has 
overtaken us ; it is too late. Let some one 
who has been in a like position convey my 
thoughts to you. I cannot. I see nothing 

126 



SNAP 



as on goes iny noble, powerful, dauntless 
steed. How long can he hold ont against 
such terrible odds? Bravely he plunges- 
through, never missing his footing; his 
great, well-built, strong body firmly poised 
against the torrent that is now swelling and 
deepening at every step. We seem to be 
in the very heart of it. I am too appalled 
to do anything but hold on. I try to make 
my weight lighter. The darkness is in- 
tense. The heaving sides of my horse 
against my knees and the rushing water 
drown every other thought. The footing is 
getting worse and worse. It cannot be long 
now before all will be over for Snap and 
me. We seem to be wedged in by floating 
material all about us. 

What is this fresh sensation, new to me 1 
Our motion has suddenly changed. Can it 
be that Snap has given up! Is he power- 
less to resist the struggle longer? We seem 
to be gliding so smoothly, yet everything is 
so treacherous about us. 

Where are we going? Oh, save me from 
this last appalling realization. He is be- 

127 



SNAP 



yond his depth, and the water is surging 
over me. Snap is swimming; swimming 
with all the strength of his noble limbs and 
stanch affection, and darkness is about us 
still. The current is growing swifter and 
swifter every moment and is carrying us 
with it. Yes, we are going with the tide; 
Snap is too clever to try to swim against 
it. Where are we now? What river is 
this ? If the creek close to my house, swol- 
len beyond all recollection, then where are 
the falls, — before or behind us? If the 
former, then speedy and certain death 
faces Snap — struggling on — and me. 

I lean forward slightly and whisper some 
encouraging, tender words to him ; but the 
roaring of the water drowns my voice. For 
the first time in his life he does not seem 
to hear me. His breath is coming quick 
and fast. I realize that all will soon be 
over, and I say, "We shall go together, 
Snap, — together. I shall not struggle when 
your noble head goes under, for I shall lock 
my arms about your neck, and together we 
shall enter the happy hunting-grounds. 

128 



SNAP 



Take it easy, Snap. Do not work so hard. 
Thud! What has happened? Has he gone 
down? Where am I? Where is he? 

We have struck something. Snap is 
struggling to his feet. I have been knocked 
from my saddle and am lying on a firm 
foundation. A light is breaking from the 
east, and I can see we are both on solid, 
dry ground. Snap is standing looking 
down upon me. We are on a little island, 
in the midst of the seething torrent. The 
roar of the water is dreadful, but we are 
safe. I cannot tell whether I am glad or 
sorry until I know that no harm has come 
to my noble steed. I place my hand upon 
his heart and put my face to his. 

He drops his head to mine, and I clasp 
my hands about his neck. He breathes fast 
and quick. For a few moments we ex- 
change silent love-tokens, then his breath 
comes more evenly and smoothly, and be- 
fore long he breathes more naturally than 
his master. 

I watch the sun as it rises warm and red, 
casting its rays upon such devastation as I 

9 129 



SNAP 



hope never again to be called upon to wit- 
ness. Nothing seems to be above the water 
bnt Snap and myself. Houses, barns, all 
I had in stock and pasture, are laid bare, 
gone in the torrent still raging about us, 
of which we two, seemingly sole survivors, 
are the only spectators. 

Slowly the sun rises higher and higher, 
bringing to light such desolation as would 
make your heart sick. Oh, the horror of 
it ! Men and women, too, and children are 
being tossed and twisted and buried in that 
moving mass of ruin in which we are pow- 
erless to render assistance. Fragments of 
houses, barns, and stables, struggling 
sheep, cows, and horses, and those that 
have already lost power to struggle, are 
being carried, in sickening numbers, rap- 
idly by us. Oh, the misery of it all ! 

With a little moan Snap stretches him- 
self on the green grass beside me. I has- 
ten to see if he is suffering, but his eyes 
are natural, there is still plenty of fire be- 
hind the languor, and I know that all he 
needs is a good stable, which I cannot pro- 

130 



SNAP 



vide, and nature's gentle restorative, rest. 
So I seat myself on the grass, and taking 
his head in my lap, I watch — while he 
sleeps — the rapidly-flowing, but now sub- 
siding, stream which winds like a sinuous 
snake all about us. 

When we are able to leave our place of 
safety, we wearily and sadly turn towards 
home. Home ! what does that word mean 
to me now? All is gone; the foundations 
only remain ; there are none of the old fa- 
miliar faces to greet us. Instead red clay 
and mud, with debris of all kinds covering 
everything several feet deep. My farm has 
suffered the most, being directly in the 
track of the overflow. I am too dazed to 
take cognizance of it all. 

Snap carries me gently, with drooped 
head; and in silent, kindred sympathy to- 
gether we look upon the ravages the water 
has made. 

Later I pitch a tent for Snap and me, and 
together we occupy it. Some day we shall 
have something better. 



131 



TRANSITION 



IN her dear cold hand there rested 
Just a pure white rose or two. 
Ne'er again she.'ll pick the posies, 
Glistening with the morning dew. 

They will fade ; but in our memory, 
She will live to cheer our way; 

Like the budding, fragrant flowers 
Coming in the month of May. 

Peace on earth. She brings the message. 

Crowned with joy her days have fled. 
Now I know the white-robed angels 

Bend in reverence o 'er her bed. 

Hush. Tread softly in her sanctum; 

The sun is touching that white rose, 
Fragrant with the breath of Heaven, 

Breathing peace and long repose. 



132 



!S3S3SXS3SXSi 

SIGNORINA CAMILLE MINA 

44TDUON giorno Signorina, come s£a?" 

X3 ■ i Sto bene grazie. ? ' 

"Ed Ella?" 

"Audi* io sto bene grazie." 

Stop at Varese when next you visit Italy, 
and rest at the magnificent old chateau, 
with its great marble staircase and beauti- 
ful garden, and enjoy all its stately gran- 
deur, for it has been turned into a hotel 
for the comfort of visitors. 

Ask for Signorina Camille Mina, and 
study from her the Italian language, hear- 
ing her beautiful intonation, which you will 
treasure in memory, and the great charm 
of her winsome Italian manner. 

She will come to you each morning, in 
her snow-white, dainty frock, unspotted 
and unmussedj saying, — 

"Buon giorno Signorina, come staf " in 
an accent you will wish belonged to you. 

When the lesson is over and you know 

133 



SIGNORINA CAMILLE MINA 

she has some one as impatiently awaiting 
her, as were yon, she will make yon feel 
that she has been paying yon a delightful 
visit, that she takes no account of time, and 
that there is nothing easier to learn than 
the Italian language. Leaving you, she will 
say,— 

"Sono molto triste di lasciarla Sig- 
norina." 

When you hear these words from her lips 
you will wish the lesson were just begin- 
ning ; but your heart will be filled with far 
greater regret when you are obliged to 
leave the garden and the truly Italian vil- 
lage and Signorina Camille Mina. 

It is lamentable to imagine that French 
is the only language necessary in Italy, — 
though it will carry you through the beaten 
tracks. In the too grievously neglected and 
remote places, so fascinating and foreign, 
Italian is absolutely necessary if you would 
enjoy the seldom frequented, isolated parts 
which the real Italy offers. 

Go, then, to Varese, where you can rest 
in a truly Italian atmosphere, and, climb- 

134 



SIGNORINA CAMILLE MINA 

ing the marble stairway to your apartment, 
which you will have previously engaged, 
look out upon Monte Rosa and the setting 
sun, and catch glimpses of the picturesque 
country that you might more easily tra- 
verse if you only knew something of the 
Italian language. You will hasten to pro- 
cure some one who can teach you ; but you 
will be fortunate if you can find Signorina 
Camille Mina. 

She is of gentle birth, tenderly nurtured, 
with the manner of a little princess, and 
her lessons — if you find her — will be 
taught you among fragrant pastures and 
pleasant valleys, with not one unpleasant 
recollection. 

After five or six lessons, if you do well, 
which will assuredly follow, she will talk 
to you in Italian of her favorite composers, 
among them Fogazzaro ; possibly recite the 
following several times, making irresisti- 
ble music of each word, for she will expect 
you to commit it to memory, — not a diffi- 
cult task to try and accede to her request, 
— and you will be surprised to find that you 

135 



SIGNORINA CAMILLE MINA 

are reciting without any assistance, to your 
delight and hers, those lines she loves so 
well: 

" Quest acqua non ha pace, 

Quest acqua mai non tace; 
Ai sassi ognor si frange, 
E senza fine piange." 

You surely will promise to go to Varese 
and the interesting villages near by, and 
behind the great high stone walls take a 
peep at some of the Italian gardens, the 
most beautiful in the world. Ask for Sig- 
norina Camille Mina, and take all kind mes- 
sages from me. Maybe she will in parting 
give you, as she did me, a bunch of flow- 
ers fresh from her garden, Marechal-Niel 
roses, jasmine, and heliotrope, and by that 
time you will have learned to say, — 

"Grazie Signorina, sono molto triste di 
lasciarla. ' ' 

She will reply, looking at you sadly, 
maybe with tears in her sweet, pensive 
eyes — 

"Amo mia figlia." 

136 



SIGNORINA CAMILLE MINA 

You will take her hand tenderly in yours, 
saying,— 

"Mi spiace tanto d'essere obligata di las- 
ciare, mi spiace. Spero di ritornare." 

At this parting moment yon will not have 
the heart to speak to her in yonr cold Eng- 
lish tongue; you must perforce give her 
the pleasure and satisfaction of realizing 
that her efforts — if they can be called 
efforts — in your behalf have not been in 
vain. And as you drive reluctantly away 
from that old chateau, leaving Signorina 
Camille Mina standing watching you, her 
expressive Italian eyes, brimming with 
tears, you will clasp the loved flowers her 
hands have gathered for you, and leaning 
from the window of the "carrozza," will 
say softly, while your heart, too, beats 
quickly and sadly: 

* l Addio, mia figlia, spero di ritornare. ' ' 




137 



CS2CS2CS2CS2K2CS2 



PHANTOM SHIPS 



O'ER the ocean, floating slowly, 
Rise and pass the phantom ships, 
As the mist, like fairy draperies, 
The snn so softly, faintly tips. 

Tips with color rich and golden, 
And the ships, with decks all torn, 

Rock and sway and drift asunder, 
At the breaking of the morn. 

Drifting, swaying, disappearing, 
Shrouds and topsails both uncertain, 

Gray and white against the pale sky 
Floats in bits the fleecy curtain. 

'Tis your ship, come o'er the ocean, — 
Come to you across the seas. 

Oft in fancy, oh ! how often, 
Have we builded ships like these. 

138 



PHANTOM SHIPS 



Yet when morning breaks the vision, 

And we look far out to sea 
For the very richest cargo 

That may drift to yon or me. 

Misty, fanciful, but hopeful, 
Have we longed for just one sight 

Of those ships, in memory treasured, 
We have dreamed of in the night. 




DEC LSI 193 



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